Counting Shadows
by ImpalaLove
Summary: Set in season 9 (AU after a while). After the Winchesters decide to look through the eyes of a demon to get some much needed information, Dean is left tainted...and wanting more. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, this will probably be the longest A/N I've ever done, but that's just bc the prompt is long. I found this "summary" on IMDB for episode 9x12 before it aired, and apparently it was a fake synopsis, but I liked it so I wrote a story about it. I'll try to post once a week, but we'll see how that goes. Here's the prompt:** Sam and Dean have found themselves stuck on a case they can't solve by themselves and decide the only way to crack it is to enroll the services of a demon. Not wanting Crowley to find out what they're up to, they summon and trap a crossroads demon, promising that if he helps them solve the case, they in turn will release him. Reluctantly agreeing to the deal and listening to their dilemma, the demon explains that the only way to help them get the info they require is to let them see the world through his eyes, but also warns that seeing the world through a demon's eyes can be addictive for some people. After finding the answers they need through the blackened vision of the demon, the boys head back to finish the case, but Dean has been left tainted with the addiction and is already trying to figure out how to trap more demons to feed his secret new obsession of "Demon Sight" without Sam or Crowley finding out. ~~~~~ **For the purpose of this story, I've decided to have it set after episode 9x16 (where Dean holds the First Blade for the first time) Because of this, it can be assumed that Crowley currently has possession of the First Blade. I began writing this after 9x17 (and wrote the last chapter before the finale aired). First chapter is short- sorry.**

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**Counting Shadows**

"I think we'll pass on that, thanks," Dean Winchester snorted, fingers skimming along the blade of the bloody knife he held, tracing out a pattern only he could see. "Now why don't you just skip past all this "Let's Make a Deal" crap and tell us what we want to know? It'll go a lot...alright, at least a little...smoother for you." Dean's eyes crinkled into a dangerous smile as he finally looked up from the knife, turning his attention to the demon currently tied to the chair in front of him, devil's trap drawn in bright red paint on the floor.

Dean leaned in closer, eyebrows slightly raised as he twirled the knife. Sam stood off to the side in what had once been a laundry room in the now abandoned house, leaning slightly against a broken washing machine covered in a thin film of dust, arms crossed. His attention was focused mostly on his brother at the moment, jaw locked tight as he took in the stiff set of Dean's shoulders, the raw malice in his gaze.

"I swear, I'm not trying to make a deal," the demon practically whimpered. Blood soaked his once gray t-shirt, and his pure black eyes bore into Dean's with a naked desperation they rarely saw during these too-frequent interrogations. "This is the only way you can see where she's keeping them. It's the only way you can get into her head..." he broke off, eyes wide. "Please. Please, no more."

Dean's lip curled upwards and Sam shifted his feet, eyeing the knife in his brother's hand.

"Dean?" Sam jerked his head to the side, urging his brother to join him. Dean grimaced and took several long strides until he was able to lean against the dented dryer beside Sam, still playing idly with the small blade.

"Huh," he grunted before Sam could say anything. "What the hell does 'demon sight' even mean? Sounds to me like it could actually work, yeah?"

"Dean are you kidding me?" Sam

"Sam, think about it," Dean reasoned, "It actually makes sense. If Abaddon really _has_ forged this kind of connection with her so-called minions like this demon claims she has, then we could actually get a glimpse into her head. We could go behind enemy lines, man. We'll know all her moves before she makes them, and we'll be able to take her out for good. We can _end_ this."

"You don't think I want that?" Sam hissed, breathing in a heavy sigh. His eyes lingered on the half-concealed Mark of Cain on his brother's forearm, and Dean rubbed absently at it, Sam's pointed gaze not lost on him. "But we can't just throw all the rules out the window. Does looking through the eyes of a demon sound like a good idea to you?"

"The process is not a complicated one," the demon spoke up, shifting against his restraints. "A simple blood spell. And I will only give you the glimpse you need, as long as you promise to let me go when it is over. I will tell no one of what I have shown you. To do so would mean my death. Abaddon is...unforgiving," he finished, staring expectantly at the Winchesters.

"Just one question," Sam replied, turning to face the demon. "If you've got all this information anyway, then why do we need to see it through _your_ eyes? Why can't you just tell us?"

"And why share it at all?" Dean added.

"It doesn't work that way," the demon shook his head, strands of blood-soaked blonde hair falling loose and curling unnaturally against his sweaty forehead. Sam wondered who the kid had been before his life had been taken over by black smoke.

"I only know what Abaddon knows on the most subconscious of levels," the demon continued. "She has bound her followers together in the sense that our minds are linked, but we cannot unlock any thought that she does not want us to know. However, if a third party is introduced, they have the ability to use this link to see into her mind; into all of our minds. As long as I offer it willingly. And as for why? I have grown weary of Abaddon's rule. It is only a matter of time before she reads my thoughts and kills me off. Unless you can get to her first."

Dean inclined his head and Sam shot him a look.

"Dean..."

"Sam, this is big. We need this," Dean interrupted, not letting his brother respond before turning back to the demon once more. "What do we need to do?"

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**So yeah, tune in next week. Reviews are always appreciated. **


	2. Chapter 2

**So I figured out that if I only post once a week I'll basically never get this story out there so I'm thinking 2x a week, at least as often as I can manage. So yeah, heres' the next chapter.**

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Sam was pacing the short length of the kitchen of the abandoned house, fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms. Dean had tried to speak up several times, but after receiving nothing more than a few low growls from his brother, he figured it was best to just let the pacing continue until Sam was up to talking. And it seemed that finally, he was.

"I just don't like it."

"No shit, Sammy. But we're not talking about a vacation here. Just a few minutes, that's all we need. Just enough to read Abaddon's thoughts and get out. It'll be fine," Dean said, trying not to let his own uncertainty show. They'd been debating this for the better part of twenty minutes, and Dean was becoming impatient. Sure, the blood spell needed to read the demon's mind happened to freak him out a little bit too, but Dean couldn't let that small fact cloud his judgement about the importance of what it would mean to get into Abaddon's head.

"Please will you just let me do this without you?" Sam begged, not for the first time. "I mean this is crazy Dean. And what if the Mark has some crazy side-effects that we can't predict?"

Sam closed his eyes, running a hand down his face and casting a meaningful look towards his brother. He seemed genuinely worried in a way that Dean hadn't seen in a long time, and it surprised the elder Winchester. It wasn't as if Sam had been particularly warm and fuzzy towards him lately. It was somewhat disorienting, but it wasn't enough to deter Dean from the bigger picture.

"No. I'm coming." Dean replied without hesitation. There was no way in Hell he was leaving his brother to sift through a mind like Abaddon's on his own. The blonde demon had described this "demon sight" as being similar to waking up in someone else's dream, having to navigate through random memories and half-formed thoughts to get to the information they wanted. And the fact that they didn't know exactly what they were looking for would make it even more difficult. No, Dean wasn't leaving Sam alone on this one. Definitely not.

"Look," Dean spoke up again before Sam could. "I'm doing this. So either join me or don't. There's no debate, and we're wasting time. Besides, Cain's mark is supposed to provide protection isn't it? It's all over the lore. I'll be fine."

Dean watched the anger, then resignation wash over Sam's features, barely satisfied by the ease with which he could still work his little brother over. It was necessary in this case (as in far too many other situations to even mention), but still, Dean didn't enjoy pushing Sam's buttons, especially in recent months. The tension was high enough already.

Sam nodded curtly, and Dean turned to the rotting cabinet above his head, grabbing a small plastic bowl that appeared only somewhat dusty in comparison to the others sitting on the shelf. The two men walked back towards the demon still tethered to the chair in the next room, picking fruitlessly at the ropes binding it.

"Alright," Dean said, voice tight, "run us through this again. How much of your blood do we need for this ritual?"

"Just a few drops. Some from me and some from the two of you. Enough to forge a connection between us, thus linking you to Abaddon as well," the demon replied, tongue slithering out to catch a droplet of not yet dried blood trickling down his chin. Sam grimaced inwardly, almost missing the precision with which Dean's knife suddenly sliced across the demon's forearm, eliciting a surprised cry from the demon as its blood began to trickle steadily into the bowl Dean now held below the wound.

Dean watched with idle fascination as the black-red liquid flowed easily into the bowl, wiping his knife on the sleeve of his jacket and standing up a few moments later, bringing the bowl with him. He made another swift cut at his own wrist, letting his blood mingle with the demon's, then passed the knife off to Sam, who took it somewhat hesitantly but added his own blood to the mix.

"The spell?" Sam inquired, handing the demon a pen and paper to write out the incantation.

Dean took the bowl from his brother, sharing a loaded look as Sam bent to retrieve the paper from the demon's grasp.

_This is a horrible idea. _

_Yeah. Probably is. _

Sam took a breath, but before he could utter the first word, the demon spoke up once more.

"Now understand that I cannot be held responsible for any kind of reaction or side-effects that go along with the spell. You must let me go as per our agreement, understood?"

"What kind of side effects are we talking here?" Dean asked before Sam could, his voice low and dangerously calm. Dean's lips seemed to curl around the question, tongue caressing each consonant, and Sam couldn't help but notice the difference in his big brother's usual cocky, jibing tone. If he was honest with himself, Sam had begun to notice these subtle changes weeks ago, but for the moment he shook it off.

The demon winced, obviously also aware of the danger hidden beneath Dean's cool exterior, its eyes fixed on the knife that tightened almost subconsciously in the hunter's hand.

"Some find the experience of demon sight to be somewhat...intoxicating. Addicting, if you will," the demon said, its frightened demeanor suddenly falling away to reveal a bloodied grin. "I believe your brother has had some experience with such an addiction, no?"

Sam froze, eyes flickering between his brother and the demon, but Dean just shrugged, seemingly unaffected.

"Addiction's one thing," Dean smirked, "but see, my brother and I? We happen to hate your kind more than anything. So I seriously doubt we'd get hooked on your sick way of thinking, buddy. Now can we get this show on the road?"

Dean turned away from the demon and gave Sam a quick nod, urging him to continue with the spell. Sam hesitated only a second longer before reading the words on the paper:

"_Sanguinis vinculo cum ceciderit. Videamus tenebras quaerimus. Deforme hoc sciamus."_

There was a beat of silence, and then the demon screamed once as wisps of thin black smoke began to flow from its eyes and mouth, streaming quickly towards the Winchesters. Sam was given one more moment to process exactly what was about to happen before the smoke flowed in through his wide eyes, sending him to his knees as he cried out. He heard Dean crumple to the floor beside him, but there was no scream of agony from his brother's mouth. There was just one small, sharp gasp of air.

As if Dean had been drowning up until the moment the smoke found a home in the backs of his eyes.

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**A/N: Spell translation via Google translate because yes, I'm a true scholar: "Bind us now with blood of the fallen. Let us see the darkness we seek. Let us know this ugly sight." So original, I know. Don't be too intimidated. **


	3. Chapter 3

**This is the most unorganized succession of posting I've ever done (mostly bc I usually just write oneshots) and I apologize for that. Regardless, here's the next chapter!**

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Dean's never done drugs. At least not the ones that were supposed to get you high. (Pain meds never counted...there was a kind of foggy aftertaste that came with pain meds that Dean's never gotten used to, never enjoyed in the slightest. It's always made him feel a bit off-kilter, too out of control. So when it was pain medicine, it was always necessity). Besides that, drugs weren't part of the job description, and Dean couldn't afford to be off his game for even a second, so the prospect was never even on his mind. Not that he'd had a particular interest in drugs anyway, but it was just never an option with the life they lived.

But now Dean was thinking maybe he'd missed out, because this was pure euphoria. His bones were singing against his skin, hands shaking slightly with the vibration of it as he stood in a cloud of endless gray dust, the wind whipping past his cheeks and howling in his ears. For a few seconds, it reminded him of Purgatory, took him back to the rawness of that place, and the hairs on his neck prickled, hand suddenly itching for some kind of weapon.

He tensed, trying to hear past the wind, and a moment later he lunged at a shape moving through the fog towards him, dipping his shoulder to hit the thing straight on, head bent low. He heard the surprised "_umph_" that came with impact, but it took him an extra moment to process the familiarity of that noise, and by then his fist was already raised, seconds from making contact with his little brother's face.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam gasped, shoving his now frozen-in-shock older brother off of him and rolling swiftly to his feet in one motion, brushing off the thick gray dust that clung to his jeans. "It's me. Let's get going, this already feels horrible enough as it is. We've got to find the thickest part of the smoke. The 'epicenter;' that's what the demon called it. Find that, and we can access Abaddon's most recent thoughts."

Dean nodded and got to his feet, almost thrown off balance by how much lighter he suddenly felt, as if the smoke that surrounded them had taken some of his weight. He swayed for a moment and then righted himself, not bothering to wipe off the thin layer of ash that had clung to seemingly every crevice of his shirt and jacket.

Sam eyed him for a moment but didn't comment on the lag, instead turning to take in their surroundings. After a moment of observation, he took off, moving towards what seemed to be the darkest portion of smoke. Dean followed suit, eyes sweeping for possible threats with the practiced movements of a hunter. After a while though, he found himself relaxing a little bit, getting lost in the thick plumes of smoke that seemed to come from all directions, billowing up around him on every side as he and Sam moved closer and closer towards the darkest of the darkness.

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Dean was just starting to wonder what his brother found so 'horrible' about all this when said brother froze directly in front of him, leaving Dean about half a second to react before he barreled into him. But somehow, there was no collision. Instead, Dean skidded to a halt just inches from his brother's back, already crouching on instinct when he saw the tension rolling off of Sam's shoulders.

"What?" he hissed, barely above a whisper.

"Shh," was all Sam said, though he too crouched lower, shifting his feet and beginning to circle to the right, as though trying to inch his way around some kind of predatory animal. Dean squinted into the smoke, trying to see what Sam saw, but only finding more rolling waves of gray ash that peppered his eyelashes, forcing him to blink against it.

Dean cast quick glances back and forth between Sam and whatever the hell it was Sam seemed to be staring at, eyes wide, hands clenched into fists. Dean was about to speak up again when he finally saw it too.

A transparent film of white drifted towards him from the fog, shimmering before his eyes and casting a long shadow across the dusty ground. Dean watched, frozen in place, as the thin sheet floated to a stop directly in front of him. Through it, Dean could still see the form of his brother, feet seemingly glued to the ground in a similar fashion just a few feet away, but at the moment, that's not what Dean was focusing on. Instead, he watched as one image after another flashed across the veil in front of him, as though he were watching some kind of 3-D movie come to life.

The scenes were too quick to process completely, a running stream of images that all seemed to possess their own smell, taste, touch. He could feel blood dripping steadily from his hands, down his chin, hear the screams and cries that had been so familiar to him once, had become a part of his life for forty straight years. He felt a wave of pure red wash over him, filling him with a power unlike any he had ever possessed, rivaled only by the feeling of the First Blade in his hand.

But this was different. This was better.

Now he held it _all_ in his hands. Now he could control any outcome, could see the fear in the eyes of those he hunted, those he killed. Still staring at the glassy screen before him, Dean listened to the whistle of a knife sliding through the air, slashing through skin and bone, more screams rippling across the expanse of gray-black smoke that still existed somewhere in his periphery. Sensation after sensation hurtled their way through him, through to his very core, each split-second vision filling him with a bubbling force that pounded against his skull, seemed to bounce off from the ashen ground and propel its way through every muscle, every tendon, every limb of his trembling body.

It was glorious and it was terrifying, and Dean lost himself within it, too caught up to watch with anything more than detached fascination as the thickening smoke curled closer and closer, shutting everything out until all he saw in front of him was blackness.

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**I'm thinking if I post two times a week that should be good. Haven't figured out which days that should be so I'm open to suggestions- a little uniformity would probably keep me on track with this =). And of course, your thoughts/reviews are appreciated as always!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I've decided I'll probably post on Mondays and Thursdays and see how consistent I can be with that. Today's is a little late because my computer is being insufferable but here it is =)**

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"DEAN!" Sam yelled for what felt like the thousandth time. "Dean, come on. COME ON."

"Mmy?" Dean murmured, eyes finally fluttering open to meet his brother's blurry form. Sam let out a sigh of relief and immediately began checking Dean over for injuries. Still dazed, Dean reached out instinctively, gripping the sleeve of Sam's shirt. Sam paused in his examination, watching as a slow, easy smile spread across his big brother's face, a smile he hadn't seen in a long time, maybe years.

"Hey Sammy?" Dean muttered, almost sleepily.

"Yeah Dean?" Sam asked, forehead crinkled in concern. There was something off about this, something very _not_ Dean about the whole exchange. Sam expected his brother to have his guard completely up after what had just happened, to be already on his feet and looking to get their information and get out as quickly as possible. To not want to spend another second in this terrible place, especially now. Especially after...

Sam shied away from the still poignant memory of his encounter with Abaddon's thoughts- an overwhelming mirage of blood and gore and evil. Rotting corpses and screaming victims and other horrifying images that had his stomach twisting violently, even with all the things he'd already seen in his lifetime. Sam was sickened by the whole ordeal, mind still reeling and blood still boiling. But Dean? Dean seemed completely at ease, if not a little out of it. Sam's unease only grew at his brother's continued calm and at the slow way his lips moved as he formed his next words.

"What happened? I mean what...was that?" Dean asked, pulling himself up to a sitting position, hand still grasping at Sam's shirt like it was a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from tipping over again or floating off into the darkening smoke that still surrounded them. Sam glanced down at that hand, disturbed by the slight tremble that rippled up along the fabric of his shirt and up to his collarbone. Dean noticed the direction of Sam's gaze and quickly released his grip, hand falling into his lap.

"We uh," Sam started, not quite sure how to explain what had just happened. Not quite sure he wanted to. "I mean I got a glimpse into some of Abaddon's thoughts...memories maybe? It was...God it was awful. Did you see the same things I did? Did you feel...did you feel it?" Sam asked, watching his brother closely. Instead of answering, Dean shifted uneasily onto his knees, and Sam helped him gain his feet, wiping at the thick gray powder along his brother's shoulders. Dean shoved him away, staggering backwards but still keeping his eyes on the ground.

"Dean?" Sam asked, willing the older hunter to look at him.

"Let's go Sam," was all Dean said. And with that, he turned and disappeared into the smoke.

The brothers made their way silently through the roiling fog, and with each step they took, it seemed to become more and more menacing, the edges curling lazily around their ankles as if attempting to drag them into the ground. Every once in a while, they would be bombarded by a random memory or passing thought, words and pictures echoing inside their heads. It left Sam shuddering each time, though it was never as bad as that first time.

Finally, when it seemed they'd be lost in the darkening plumes forever, the fog suddenly shifted, fading slowly to either side, leaving a path of clear air directly in front of them. Dean and Sam exchanged a wary glance, brows furrowed, their steps more tentative now as they moved along the path.

It happened in the space between two blinks.

One second, they were walking deeper into a vast nothing, and the next, a pure white light was pulsing towards them with overwhelming speed. Both brothers brought up their hands instinctively, trying to shield their eyes, but the light only got brighter. Dean squeezed his eyes shut a second later, no longer able to keep them open. The light burned through his lids, illuminating his vision with a fiery orange blaze.

And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the pure white essence seemed to collapse in on itself, shrinking until it was about the size of a baseball, whirling and writhing, the edges frayed and wispy. It was beautiful.

Dean opened his eyes and stared, somewhat transfixed, as more small spheres of white floated up beside the first, twisting and pulsing as if they were alive. And suddenly, it was as if a film had been lifted from his eyes, and he could finally make out the whole picture. The spheres of light sat encased in glass jars, sitting on a rusted out shelf in an old, abandoned building, the windows shattered, cobwebs decorating the corners. Dean turned to glance at Sam, who looked just as confused as Dean felt. They watched as the picture began to fade, the orbs of light flickering once, twice, and then going out, leaving both brothers staring at empty space once more.

"That was it?" Dean asked after a moment. "That was the goddamn epicenter?" What a fucking rip-off."

"Dean..." Sam warned, but he never got to finish his thought before the world once again went black around them.

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**See you Thursday and as always, thank you for reading/reviewing!**


	5. Chapter 5

**No need for any introduction really besides: "here's the next chapter" =)**

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Sam regained consciousness all at once, body wrenched forward into a sitting position as he gasped for air, automatically taking in his surroundings even as he struggled to breathe. He was sitting on the floor in the abandoned house, the demon they had been interrogating still strapped to the chair off to his left, its black eyes surveying Sam with a cold kind of assessment that made him shudder. His gaze fell next on his brother, lying on the floor beside him. He looked peaceful, the hard plains of his faced smoothed out in a way that made him look almost child-like. Sam leaned over to shake him awake, but Dean chose that very moment to fly forwards, much the same way Sam had, their heads colliding with a resounding smack.

"Shit!" Sam grunted, pressing a hand to his now-throbbing head.

"Jesus!" Dean yelled simultaneously, echoing his little brother's sentiment.

The blonde demon screeched with laughter, blood still caked along its lips, wrists bleeding fresh from its attempts to escape while Sam and Dean had been unconscious. "The mighty Winchesters. I've heard stories. No one ever mentions how pathetic you both are."

"Pathetic, huh?" Dean echoed, rubbing at his forehead as he stood. He made his way over to the dryer where the demon knife rested, picking it up and flipping it in his hands. "Not as pathetic as the begging you'll be doing in a second."

"Dean, chill," Sam said, getting to his feet as well. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, pausing his advance.

"I...you're supposed to let me go," the demon said, fidgeting uneasily. "I gave you everything you needed. We had a deal!"

Dean smiled humorlessly. "If you've heard the stories, then you must know by now that we don't keep our deals with your kind...and we definitely don't leave any survivors." The flash of the knife was instantaneous, Dean's body twisting away from Sam and towards the demon, plunging the knife directly into its heart. It didn't even have time to scream, head lolling to the side, eyes wide open in shock as the life flickered out of it.

Sam stared at his brother, watching as Dean removed the knife from the demon's chest, wiping it methodically on the sleeve of his jacket before bending to untie the ropes around its wrists and ankles. He looked up a second later.

"You gonna help or what?"

Sam narrowed his eyes but moved to help, watching Dean as they cleaned up any sign of their presence in the house. It wasn't until they were back in the Impala, headed for the bunker, that Sam spoke up.

"You okay?" he asked, knowing his brother would deflect the question as always, but not knowing where else to start.

"I'm fine. Just pissed. Would've been nice to get something useful out of that whole mess," Dean replied, eyes never leaving the road.

"I hear ya man," Sam nodded. "I'm just asking...I'm just making sure you're alright. You've just been...on edge lately. A little too...I don't know."

"A little too _what_ Sam?" Dean asked, his jaw tight.

Sam sighed. He really hadn't wanted to start another argument. "Just...I don't know. But if there's something going on, if there's something I should know about, you gotta tell me, okay?"

Dean nodded, still not looking at anything but the asphalt blurring beneath his tires.

"Okay."

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The bunker was too quiet and Dean was climbing the walls, barely able to sit down in the few short hours since they'd gotten back. He had driven the entire eight hours, insisting he was fine when Sam asked (the same goddamn question every time. As if the answer would change). Sam had made an adamant effort to pretend he was asleep, body slumped against the passenger window of the Impala for the entire ride, but Dean knew it was an act. That fact was only solidified when Sam had gone immediately to bed upon their arrival, dead to the world in a matter of minutes.

Dean was still wide awake though, and he knew there was no reason he should be. He hadn't slept in...okay if he was being honest, he probably hadn't slept more than a few hours in the last two weeks. Definitely not at all since Magnus. So he should've been exhausted right now, completely conked out. But he wasn't. It was as if he were waiting for the high of being in Abaddon's head to wear off.

Dean shuffled his way into the kitchen and opened one of the cabinets, needing a distraction. He paused and moved more slowly to minimize the familiar clink of bottles, intent on not waking Sam as he grabbed one of the stronger whiskeys from a nearby cabinet and made his way over to the small table in the kitchen, grabbing a glass along the way. He downed the first shot with barely a wince and quickly poured another.

Dean knew Sam hadn't had the same experience that he had, could tell that his little brother had found Abaddon's head to be a place of darkness and despair. But Dean could still taste that thick layer of red past the slow burn of the whiskey, could still feel the all-encompassing power that rumbled like an avalanche through every tightly-wound muscle.

And he wanted to go back. Wanted to do it all again.

He knew that was wrong, all kinds of wrong, and he tried desperately to push down the thoughts that clung like tangled weeds to the walls of his mind.

_Some find the experience of demon sight to be somewhat...intoxicating. Addicting, if you will..._

Dean heard the faint sound of breaking glass before he felt it, glancing down at the now shattered shot glass in his hand. Blood dripped from between his fingers, but he didn't make an attempt to clean it up right away. Instead, he watched it seep into the wooden surface of the table, opening his palm to let the shards of glass clatter beside the growing pool.

As he watched the light reflect off of the bloody glass, his body seemed to crash without warning, vision blurring as the last of his reserves left him like the sudden choke of an extinguished candle. He blinked furiously against the sudden exhaustion, pulling himself slowly up from the table and stumbling to the sink, washing the blood and a few remaining pieces of glass from his hands. He found a cloth by the sink and walked back over to the table, cleaning up the rest of the blood and glass as best he could manage.

Still, he didn't want to sleep, wasn't ready to close his eyes. There was just so much they still had to do.

Dean grabbed a mug and started making coffee.

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**I'll update again on Monday- hope you all have an awesome weekend!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Idk just read. **

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Sam knew he had been dreaming, and he knew it had been a nightmare, but he couldn't remember much beyond that. He recalled flashes of smoke and blood, and he found that if he lingered, he could probably fill in the gaps.

So he didn't linger, instead firing up his laptop and bringing it with him on his way to the coffeemaker, glad to see that Dean hadn't fallen asleep at the table again. It had become a habit of his brother's to spend his nights poring over research, only to be found slumped over the table each morning, papers scattered around him, sticking to the sides of his face when he finally woke from what Sam imagined could only be a short spurt of fitful sleep. There was a time when Sam would do more than raise his eyebrows at this. There was a time when he would launch almost immediately into a lecture about the benefits of sleep, the need to be well rested if there were going to survive another day. But lately, Sam kept his mouth shut. Lately, there were far too many unspoken words between them. They seemed to hang in the air around them, accumulating an ever-increasing weight.

Sam hadn't really meant for it to get so bad between them. It wasn't as if he didn't care about his brother anymore. That would never happen. He was just finding it hard to forgive. Lack of a formal apology was definitely aiding in the long-standing tension, but despite all the crap Dean had pulled lately, Sam couldn't deny that he was still worried for him. Watching Dean with that Blade in his hand...it had been like catching his old reflection in the mirror, back when Ruby and demon blood had ruled his life. Dean's eyes, so cold and dark, the light sucked right out of once green irises, the utter lack of emotion there. It had been hard to look at, and even harder to snap Dean out of it. Sam didn't want to admit how much that terrified him.

So they just didn't talk about it.

Sam padded his way over to the small table, beginning his research. It took a ridiculously short amount of time to pick up a case, but after reading it over a few more times, Sam was sure it was something. He'd learned to trust his gut on these kinds of things long ago, and so far, he hadn't been let down very often.

Sam printed out the article, packed a duffle, and made his way to what he referred to as their "study room," somewhat surprised and more than a little disappointed to see that Dean was, in fact, already awake and poring over his own research, as usual.

"Hey," Dean mumbled, barely lifting his head in acknowledgment as Sam climbed the three steps into the room.

"Catch any shut-eye last night?" Sam asked, noticing the darkening circles under his brother's eyes and not even a little surprised that the answer was no.

"Guess I'm driving then," Sam said.

"Driving where?" Dean asked, turning to look at the paper Sam held in his hands. Sam placed it on the table in front of his brother.

"Caught wind of a case online. First grade teacher came home and killed her husband."

Dean cast a cursory glance at the news article with a slight shrug. "Maybe she snapped. Ankle-biters'll do that to you."

Sam cocked his head to the side and tried to argue, but was quickly shot down. "Why don't you go?" Dean said, standing up to shuffle through some papers in one of the files to his left, his back to his brother.

"What's up with you?" Sam asked after several more attempts at getting his brother to stop and talk to him. A case would be good for them, might help them get their minds off of all the other crap going on right now. Sam figured Dean would be going stir-crazy by now, jumping at a chance to hit the road. He tried not to let the fact that he could no longer read his brother bother him too much, barely letting Dean's adamant "nothing" slip past before he cut in again.

"Yeah? See because ever since you killed Magnus, you've been acting...sort of...obsessed," Sam pressed. Dean's shoulders dropped, finally turning to face Sam.

"Well, maybe because I want an end to all this," he said, some subtle undercurrent in his tone that Sam couldn't quite pick up. He tried not to let that bother him too much either, tried not to read too much into the double meaning of exactly which "this" Dean was referring to. And he tried even harder not to notice the way Dean's eyes darkened when he mentioned the First Blade and taking down Abaddon.

"Okay," Sam said, trying one last time to elicit some truth from his brother. "I get it, Dean. I'm just...checking in."

"I'm fine," Dean replied, sitting down to once again bury his nose in the book in front of him. Sam sighed but let it go. He could worry about it later. He snagged the news article off the table, calling over his shoulder that Dean should call him if he found anything. Not that Sam expected a call. They'd been going over and over the same stuff for months with nothing to show for it, and Sam wasn't about to get his hopes up that his severely sleep-deprived brother would make any headway.

Sam clambered his way up the steps and out the door, never seeing the bottle of whiskey Dean pulled out the moment he was gone.

* * *

Dean was thinking about it the second the door shut behind his brother. He was thinking about it even as he tried to drown the idea beneath an entire bottle of whiskey. He drank it down fast, even for him, the cool brown liquid barely burning as it raced down his throat, as if desperately trying to fill his stomach, to help quell the other desire that already rested there.

He wanted it again.

No. Needed it.

It was a tangible, burning thing, a slow, simmering shifting of his limbs. His veins felt dry, his blood boiled into nothing but thick black steam, not unlike the smoke that had surrounded him inside Abaddon's head, the heavy mist that he so desperately craved once more. The whiskey bottle sat empty on the desk, his hunger far from satisfied. For a while, he tried to keep the gnawing thoughts at bay, burying himself in the books and notes that lay open on the desk, but pretty soon he couldn't ignore it anymore. Dean stood up from the table, grabbing his jacket with the sole intention of finding something to kill.

He ended up at a bar instead, figuring he'd have to settle for killing nothing short of his own liver. He sat down at a nearby booth and quickly made himself comfortable, immediately ordering a beer. If he thought about it, he probably should've been obliterated by now, a wobbly mess of sweat and puke. Instead, his vision was only slightly blurred, and he found it easy to hit the right button when Sam called to check in a few minutes later. Dean tried to glaze over the small lie when his brother asked for help with the case, but his voice wavered slightly nonetheless.

"I'm getting close Sam. I can't drop the ball on Abaddon now..."

He hung up a second later, only to hear Crowley's unmistakable accent in his ear. He grimaced and turned to face the demon, who smiled at him in that irritatingly self-assured way that always made Dean want to throw a quick right cross at his nose. He resisted the urge, however. He needed Crowley on his side, needed him to be willing to keep quiet about what he was about to ask of him.

_God_, Dean thought mirthlessly, _how low have I sunk?_

* * *

Crowley played dumb for a while, Dean could tell as he worked his way slowly around the pool table, taunting him with memories of holding the First Blade in his hand, of feeling all that trembling power. And finally, Dean couldn't take it anymore. He straightened up from the shot he was lining up, leaning over his pool cue, face twisted into a grimace as he regarded the demon before him.

"I uh..." he started, pinching two fingers at the bridge of his nose, eyes on the floor. "I need a favor."

"Oh?" Crowley inquired, eyebrows raised in a show of interest.

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I need to know how to find Abaddon's followers. How to distinguish them from your followers and make sure that when I summon a demon, it's one of hers."

Crowley looked slightly caught off guard by the question, pausing to examine the eight ball that had stopped near his side of the table on Dean's last shot, barely missing the pocket. He rolled it slightly off its original course, letting it slide easily beneath his fingers.

"Why on earth would you need to know that?" Crowley asked. "My followers have been keeping clear of the two of you for obvious reasons, and for less obvious reasons, so have Abaddon's. I know you Winchesters aren't the slickest oil spill in the bay, but why the hell would you want to bring demons to you on _purpose_?"

"None of your damn business," Dean said, lip twitching.

"You bet your ass it's my business," Crowley countered, taking a step toward Dean. "Like it or not, we're in this together. Your problems, my problems. Our problems." He slammed a hand down on the pool table for effect, glaring at the older Winchester expectantly. Dean sighed, turning away from Crowley to place his pool cue back on the rack.

"Look I don't need this, okay?" Dean said, wiping chalk off of the sleeves of his jacket. "Just wait for my call on the Abaddon front, and bring the damn Blade when I ask for it. That's the only business you need to worry about."

And with that, he made his way outside, shoving trembling hands into his pockets as he watched the cold air turn each breath into a small puff of frosted smoke. It wasn't the smoke he needed right now but it was enough to make him remember, enough to break down the thin barrier between losing his nerve and staying in control. He fought it for a second, but then suddenly he found himself right back in the thickest part of Abaddon's twisted mind, buried in thick blood. It seemed to slide down his body, flowing like a stream below his feet, his hands bathing in it, fingernails crusted with dried burgundy from older kills as the sweet screaming music filled the air around him...

"You alright there, mate? You look a bit peckish." Crowley's drawling sarcasm startled Dean back to the surface, and he found he was leaning heavily against the side of the bar near the door, slumped into a sitting position, breathing hard. He stood up quickly and slid his hands from his pockets, examining them. Though they still shook slightly, there was no sign of blood anywhere. No sign of the thick paste he had so clearly felt sliding along his palms just seconds ago.

Dean straightened his shoulders, glowering at Crowley without bothering to answer. He shoved off from the wall and started to walk. Crowley's eyes narrowed and he trotted after Dean, his expression still holding an infuriating amount of concern and confusion.

"Look Squirrel, I'm quickly losing faith here. I'm not inclined to let you fall apart before you have a chance to kill the redheaded devil that is currently threatening my entire operation. I need you on point, so you gotta be honest with me. We could be buddies, you and I. You just gotta tell me what your problem is." Crowley reached to put a hand on Dean's shoulder, which was immediately shrugged off.

Dean whirled to face the demon, eyes flashing.

"We are not "_buddies_," you understand me?" he hissed. "We are just barely business partners..." Dean paused as a wave of dizziness overtook him, stumbling for half a step before he gathered himself, still managing to glower menacingly at Crowley.

"Don't follow me," he growled, stalking off towards the shadowed outline of the Impala waiting for him in the parking lot.

* * *

**Next update will be on Thursday. Thanks so much for your continued interest! AND HAVE YOU SEEN THAT SNEAK PEEK FOR SEASON 10? Not over it. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Happy Thursday! Here's the next chapter. **

* * *

Dean looked like shit.

And that was the nice way of saying it. Sam dropped his duffle on the ground as he made his way to where his brother sat, nose still buried in research, as if he hadn't moved in the days Sam had been gone. Maybe he hadn't. Sam almost commented on that, probably should've, but he was distracted, still reeling from his discovery in Illinois.

"Still pluggin' away?" he asked instead, already grabbing for a nearby file to get started on his own research.

"Dog with a bone," Dean replied, not looking up. "You?"

Sam sighed and slammed the papers he had grabbed down on a separate table, probably a little harder than necessary. "You were right," he admitted.

"About what?"

"Finding Abaddon asap. She's mining souls."

Dean froze for a second, regarding his little brother. "Why?"

"To create an army."

Dean huffed out a breath and shook his head, gaze falling back to the papers in front of him a few seconds later with renewed fervor.

"Dean. There's one more thing," Sam said. "These souls? I'm pretty sure that's what we saw in Abaddon's head. Those bright, white orbs, remember? I found a room full of them."

"I remember," Dean nodded, eyes still on his research, though his hand tightened around the edge of the table.

The two sat in silence for hours, getting up to grab another stack of papers every once in a while, scanning file after file until Sam's vision blurred and his head began to ache. Sam looked up for the first time in a long time to see that Dean seemed to be in even worse shape than him. His brother held his head in his hands, furiously rubbing at his temples, and if Sam wasn't mistaken, Dean's hands were shaking slightly, his body hunched almost completely in half as he leaned over the table.

"Dean?"

No response.

"Dean?"

Dean seemed to jerk back to himself, as if his mind had been far away, no longer focused on the words in front of him.

"We should take a break, man. Grab some food. Do we have anything in the kitchen or should I make a run?" Sam asked.

"Uh, no I can...I can make a run," Dean said, rubbing a hand across his forehead. Sam nodded. It was probably a good idea for Dean to get out of the bunker for a little while. Sam hoped a short ride in the Impala might make him look a little less like death warmed over. Doubted it though.

"You sure you can drive?" Sam regretted the question the second it left his mouth. It was meant to be said lightly, but Sam could tell by the way Dean's shoulders tensed that it hadn't come across that way. And why would it, with the way things were between them lately? Dean paused for an extra second, hand frozen halfway to reaching for his jacket. Sam could see the Mark of Cain imprinted on that arm, could see the way it made the surrounding veins stand out against Dean's skin.

The elder hunter seemed to decide that his little brother's remark didn't warrant a response. He grabbed his jacket and was out the door before Sam could even tell him what he wanted to eat.

The first rays of sunlight crept their way across the dashboard of the Impala, enveloping its driver in a soft yellow glow as it zoomed down the road. Dean's hands gripped the steering wheel a little harder than usual, an irrational fury singing through his bones. He bit his lip in frustration, trying to get some control back. With the help of a few long, deep breaths and a couple smacks against the steering wheel with his open palm, he seemed to somewhat find his balance again. It scared him, the way he had been losing his cool so easily lately. He knew Sam hadn't meant anything by the comment, knew Sam had said so much worse to him in the past few months. _God, so much worse_.

Usually driving his baby had a way of calming Dean, but today, he couldn't seem to lose the edge that tensed his muscles and had him casting wary glances behind him every few seconds, as if searching for a tail. This wasn't like him. Sure, maybe the paranoia was nothing new (and let's be honest, it had probably saved their lives on multiple occasions), but this violent pressure behind his eyes, the insuppressible feelings of anger? That was something he'd always had a handle on. It was as if the walls he had spent his life building up had suddenly decided to crumble, their structures collapsing with the added weight that burned a constant reminder into his forearm.

"_You have to know, with the Mark comes a great burden..."_

Dean shook his head, trying not to dwell on Cain's words, though they seemed to be echoing against the confines of his skull more often than not these days. Dean wondered, not for the first time, exactly what it was he had signed up for, before remembering that it didn't matter. As long as he could kill Abaddon, it was worth it. He'd deal with the consequences later. After.

The Impala rolled to a gradual stop beneath the neon sign that claimed that _Melvin's_ had the "best burgers in the county" and was "open at all hours." Dean only really cared about the second part, and even though a burger didn't sound like a fantastic option this early in the morning, food was food at this point. He climbed from the car and made his way inside, trying to remember the last time he'd had more than alcohol sitting in his stomach.

_Melvin's_ was small but loudly decorated and had one of those annoying bells going off every time someone entered. The walls were covered in a generic red and white checkerboard pattern with cheap table cloths to match. There were posters and old advertisements littering the walls, and several sparkling red barstools sitting along the length of the front counter in a sad attempt at a 50's theme. Dean strode to the front counter towards a portly-looking woman with short brown hair pulled into a ridiculously tiny excuse for a ponytail. She smiled wide when she saw Dean.

"Hello and welcome to Melvin's, what can I get for you today, sir?"

Dean placed his order somewhat gruffly, not really in the mood for smalltalk, eyes quickly scanning over the only other patrons in the restaurant at this hour. The first two were a young couple sitting at one of the corner booths, legs wrapped around each other as they dug into their food, wrappers scattered around them like confetti. Dean could see the red veins bulging from their eyes all the way from where he was standing, and he shook his head in amusement.

The third customer was a man of considerable size digging into a particularly giant cheeseburger as though he had just found his soulmate, mustard already smeared across his face and dripping its way down his short, pudgy fingers. As Dean watched, a ketchup-covered pickle slid its way out from the bun and landed on the man's shirt, staining it in the thick red paste. Dean sucked in a breath, his world tilting suddenly, and he latched onto the counter, fingers curled forcibly around the wood.

_Thick red paste, sliding down his chin, tongue flicking out to catch the droplets that fell, tasting metal. Hands gripped around a limp form, long jet-black hair splayed out across his shoulders as he holds her, her eyes still open in shock, her body a mess of blood that has flowed from the thick red gash at her throat all the way down to her bare feet, a puddle already forming..._

"Sir? Sir? Your order is ready, sir."

Dean snapped roughly back to the present to find the smiling woman from before standing in front of him, holding out an already greasy paper bag with the _Melvin's_ logo scrawled in obnoxious font across the front. He snatched it from her with a short nod, his head still halfway caught up in what he'd just...seen? Imagined? Remembered? He wasn't even sure anymore. He released his death grip from the counter and turned to leave, only to come face to face with the newest customer, a young man with a baseball cap covering a mess of brown hair.

"Whoa man, watch where you're going," the man smirked, hands thrown back in a kind of mock surrender.

"Sorry I...sorry," Dean mumbled distractedly, brushing past. It wasn't until he was standing outside the door of _Melvin's_ that his sleep-deprived brain caught up to what he had just seen.

The young man's eyes had been completely black.

* * *

**Tune in on Monday for the next update! **


	8. Chapter 8

**These next few chapters will follow the structure of episode 9x18 and I do actually use some of that original dialogue to try to stick to the story in some regards (as I thought that was a great episode). However, I've cut out the parts between Cas and Metatron in the interest of finishing this story within my lifetime.**

* * *

Dean looked slightly less like shit when he trudged lazily through the door of the bunker, but Sam really didn't care at the moment. He was too angry.

"Where the hell have you been?" he yelled, taking the phone he was currently holding away from his ear. "Shit Dean it's been _three hours._ I've been calling!"

"Sorry," Dean sighed, making his way down the stairs, plopping the bag of fast-food onto the table and shrugging out of his jacket.

"Is that blood?" Sam asked, concern quickly seeping past the anger in his voice.

"No..." Dean started, but then caught sight of Sam's murderous glare, the way his little brother's eyes were currently darting back and forth between Dean's face and the dark stain on the sleeve of Dean's jacket. "Alright yeah, a little bit."

"A little bit?" Sam repeated, phone now held loosely at his side, though Dean could see the tension in the rest of his stance.

"I ran into some trouble and I took care of it Sam. Not a big deal," Dean said, reaching into the bag for his now-cold burger and unwrapping it.

"Demon?"

Dean nodded, grimacing as he took the first bite, immediately dropping the burger back onto the table. "I need a shower," he said, turning to leave.

"Hold on. Not yet," Sam said, hitting the speaker button on his cell. "Cas is on the phone. Says he has news. He just found a bunch of dead angels with some obscure symbol drawn as a kind of beacon on the wall."

Dean groaned and turned back to Sam. "Great."

"It is not 'great', Dean." Cas's voice drifted out from the phone, apparently still not completely familiar with the concept of sarcasm, no matter how often Dean used it. "Far from it. Angels are dying, and I have recently discovered that Gadreel is responsible for it. Seems he's working for Metatron."

"Gadreel?" Sam asked incredulously. "Gadreel is working for Metatron? How long?"

"I don't know," Cas said.

"So that's why he...killed Kevin," Dean interjected. "Because Metatron ordered it."

"Yes that would seem to make sense. Especially considering there have been no new prophets since. I am certain Metatron could've fixed that to his advantage." Cas replied. He explained about the symbol on the wall and about his plans to track Gadreel by following the trail of dead angels through Utah.

"God I'd love to get my hands on that cowardly son of bitch," Dean growled. "We'll meet you somewhere in the middle, try to track him down ourselves."

Cas ended the call a moment later with the promise of keeping in touch, and Dean turned to leave again.

"Where you going?" Sam called after him, eyeing the bag of food from _Melvin's _and scrunching up his nose at the idea of cold fast-food. Regular fast-food was already disgusting enough as it was.

"Shower," Dean shouted back. "Then we leave."

* * *

"So what happened?" Sam asked as soon as they were settled into the Impala, driving towards Utah.

"Hmm?" Dean mumbled, tilting his head slightly towards the passenger seat.

Sam rolled his eyes, trying not to let the frustration seep into his voice. "When you were getting our food. You said you ran into a demon. So...what the hell happened?"

Dean sighed, rolling out his neck, eyes never leaving the road. "It wasn't a big deal Sam. There was just this demon at the restaurant. And like I said, I took care of it."

"It attacked you in the middle of a restaurant?"

"No."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "No? So then what? It waited until you left and then jumped you?"

Dean's eyes slid to the side and he paused for half a second before nodding. Anyone else would've been oblivious to the hesitation. Sam wasn't anyone else.

"Dean." Sam waited until his brother finally turned to face him before continuing. "Why aren't you telling me what really happened? Was there more than one? Did they say something to you? I mean are you really this scared that you're..."

"I'm not _scared_ Sam," Dean cut in sharply. "There was one demon. Now there's one less. There's nothing else to know. If it was anything that seriously affected you, I'd tell you, but it was just the one demon, and it came after me, and now it's dead. End of story."

Dean reached for the radio dial, attempting to turn up the volume of the music currently humming softly through the speakers, but Sam's hand stopped him.

"Jesus Sam, _what_?" Dean bellowed.

Sam looked at Dean and bit his lip. It was hard to remember who Dean was sometimes, especially in these past few weeks. It was as if his brother had been replaced by some bloodthirsty machine whose only goal was taking down Abaddon. Sam sighed and kept staring, trying to see past all the guilt and the anger and the hurt that had accumulated over the years; trying to see his brother beneath it all as he spoke.

"If it affects you, it affects me."

The lines of Dean's face softened for a moment, flickering quickly over to Sam before he turned his full attention back to the road in front of them with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. But for that one second, he had almost looked like himself again. Sam watched as Dean reached for the radio dial again, music blasting throughout the Impala's interior as the brothers drove on.

* * *

Hours later, the Winchesters finally pulled into a gas station in Utah, gas tank and stomachs both running on empty.

"Buy everything," Dean joked half-heartedly, throwing a wad of cash in Sam's direction as he hopped out of the car and began filling the tank. Sam smirked and made his way inside the small convenience store, the familiar 'ding' of the door welcoming him in. He scanned the aisles with the efficiency that came with familiarity, trying not to think about how depressing it was that he knew the layout of virtually every gas station store they could ever come across. Sam grabbed a few snacks, some healthy, others for Dean, and made his way to the checkout counter. Paying for the food, Sam collected his bags and made his way back to the car, just in time to find Dean frantically replacing the nozzle and screwing on the cap to the gas tank.

"Hurry up, I'm pretty sure I just saw him. And he saw me," Dean hissed, climbing quickly back into the car. Sam jumped into the passenger seat, the wheels of the Impala already squealing across the pavement before he'd completely shut the door.

"Seriously, you saw Gadreel?" Sam asked as Dean steered the car back onto the road. "Where? How? We can't be that lucky, can we?"

"We're not," Dean said. "He was back behind the gas station. Pretty sure he's been waiting for us. Or tracking us or whatever. Didn't seem too surprised to see me, but he definitely didn't want me seeing _him_. Took off the second I made him."

"Took off?"

"Yeah," Dean snorted, making a hard right and almost sending Sam flying into him. "Angels driving around in their own cars. It's a whole new ballgame."

"So what's our play?" Sam asked, quickly buckling his seatbelt.

"I'm thinking a ring of holy oil," Dean replied. "One of us draws him out, exactly where we want him, the other drops the lighter. Boom: angel-s'more."

"Really Dean?" Sam grumbled.

Dean's smirk at his own joke quickly transitioned into a self-defensive frown. "Tough crowd," he muttered, whipping the Impala around another seemingly impossible turn and bringing her to an abrupt stop. Sam was pretty sure he would be through the windshield by now if he hadn't strapped in moments earlier. Despite the violence of the ride, Sam was out of the car in an instant, already popping the trunk in search of holy oil and a lighter. He threw the lighter to Dean, who caught it reflexively.

"I'll pour the oil and draw him out. You just make sure you're in a position you can easily toss the lighter from."

"Fine. I'll follow," Dean agreed, grabbing a few weapons from the trunk before closing it quietly.

Sam nodded and took off in the direction they assumed Gadreel had gone, angel blade already tucked into his jacket, his brother following closely behind.

Moments later, the trap was set, with Sam walking seemingly aimlessly along a narrow alley and Dean positioned above, lighter at the ready. As expected, Gadreel made an appearance. He stalked slowly towards Sam, staying well within the line of shadows that cast their shapes along the narrow wall, angel blade raised.

"Hey douchebag," Dean called, dropping the lighter so that a ring of holy fire erupted around the startled angel. Gadreel's eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed, expression turning deadly as his gaze shifted between the two Winchesters.

"Remember me?" Sam sneered.

* * *

**I'm kind of annoyed by this chapter (and the next one) because they're super unoriginal but I promise it'll get good eventually lol. In the meantime feel free to leave your comments and as always, thank you for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Again, I'm still following 9x18 with this chapter so there's some dialogue from the show thrown in, but I tried to mix it up a little. Enjoy!**

* * *

"He's not gonna crack that fast," Dean insisted. He had only allowed his brother one good punch before dragging him away from Gadreel, who was currently strapped to a chair in a nearby abandoned factory, hands cuffed and body immobilized by the symbols drawn on the floor beneath his feet.

"I know," Sam ground out. "Maybe you can hack him like Crowley did with me."

Dean shook his head. "Nah only Crowley can do that, and I'm not in the mood to call that dickbag. We need Cas."

"Any word from him?" Sam asked.

"No. I tried him again, he hasn't called or texted. And look..." Dean held up the screen of his cellphone. "I turned on the GPS on his phone. He's still in the same town from when we talked to him last."

"What the hell?"

"I don't know, but you gotta go find him." Dean shook his head, cutting off Sam's argument. "You're too close to this, man."

"Oh what, and you're not?" Sam seethed, attention torn between his brother and Gadreel. Sam had never been one for torture, but he longed to tear into the angel sitting just a few feet away. Waiting calmly, like he hadn't completely screwed them over. Like he hadn't used Sam's own body to kill Kevin, to wreak havoc on countless others that Sam was sure had suffered, but that he hadn't had the guts to unearth from his own muddled memories. It terrified him to think about all the things Gadreel may have done while possessing him. It made him _furious_.

But he could also see the logic in going to find Cas. Dean was right, he would probably end up killing Gadreel before they got any information out of him, and as much as Sam hated to admit it, Dean had far more experience when it came to procuring answers. It was just another fact that Sam never wanted to think about. It still made him ache to know of everything his brother had done for him, even all these years later. And it made it harder to stay as stoic and detached as he had been when it came to Dean lately. Not that Sam wanted it that way, but ever since finding out about Gadreel, he had been creating a distance between them, trying to push just enough so that his brother could begin to see how toxic their relationship had become, how much they ended up hurting each other in their attempts at keeping each other alive. Especially when he hadn't wanted to live in the first place...

Sam shook his head to clear it of his dark train of thought and handed the angel blade he had been holding over to Dean, giving his brother one last reluctant look before making his way out of the factory and back towards the Impala.

Dean waited until his brother had left before striding over to Gadreel, back turned to the angel as he contemplated the best way to go about his interrogation. Whether he wanted it to or not, ten years of training flooded swiftly into his mind, filling it with a sharp, distinct, droning voice he had never wanted to hear again. The voice began taking him through all the basics, like some kind of sick lecture: _Basic anatomy and pressure points, remember all that Dean? How about how many nerves are located at each part of the body? Name the most sensitive areas. Come on, I know you know them. And where are all the major arteries? Gotta make the right cuts if you want your victim to last. You always lasted a good long time didn't you? Always screaming. You know which bones snap easiest don't you? Don't you remember how you screamed...?_

Dean's thoughts were cut short by Gadreel's inquiry.

"So, he acts tough and you show kindness. Is that how this works?"

Dean smirked, Alistair's voice fading from his mind, a red haze slowly replacing it, climbing its way into the corners of his vision as he thought about exactly who it was that was now sitting in front of him. This was the angel he had trusted to heal his brother, the one he had relied on time and time again to save his friends. The one who had betrayed him in the end. Killed Kevin. Taken over Sam's body and gone on a killing spree with it. This was the angel that had ruined it all.

"No," Dean replied, words dripping venom. "See I don't care if you talk. You're gonna pay for what you did to Sam. And Kevin."

* * *

The first few slices into Gadreel's flesh were pure bliss. Dean didn't even bother with the questioning yet. He just needed to hear the unhindered screams that tore from the angel's mouth as he alternated seamlessly between punches and cuts with the angel blade. Dean examined the slivers of grace that shone through the angel's skin each time with vague fascination, a thin blue light that shimmered beneath the skin for a few seconds after each cut was made.

"Word around the campfire is, you let the snake into the garden. Ruined it for all humanity," he prodded, intent on inflicting more than just the physical pain. The hunter barely listened to Gadreel's rebuttal, already ready to move on to the good stuff. He couldn't let himself forget the actual purpose of this little session, no matter how much he longed to just keep cutting.

"Look, tell me about this getting back into Heaven crap, and I'll end this quick," Dean said, circling the chair where Gadreel sat. "Otherwise, you can sit here and rot in those chains. Forever. Up to you."

"All your talk," Gadreel leered. "You think you are invincible. The two of you against the world."

"Damn straight," Dean said, not really sure if he believed that anymore, but not willing to give Gadreel anything to work with. Judging by the angel's next words, Gadreel already had quite enough to work with.

"You really think Sam would do anything for you?" Gadreel taunted. "I've been in your brother's body Dean. He would not trade his life for yours."

Dean took the taunts, smiling maliciously as he continued to circle Gadreel's chair. And he tried to find the words that would've come to him easily less than a year ago. _Of course Sam cares. Of course he would die for me. _

Dean would've loved nothing more than to throw it all back in the angel's face, to tell Gadreel that he had absolutely no idea who Sam was. But nowadays, Dean felt as if he barely knew his little brother himself. He could understand the anger of course. Dean could understand Sam hating him for the way he had saved him. But he had expected that it would pass, just like all the other times, because eventually Sam would see that Dean couldn't do this without him. Sam would see that Dean's only reason for still fighting was the fact that his little brother was fighting beside him, ready to take on any enemy. Together. That was always how it was supposed to be.

Dean lost control sometime after his father was mentioned and sometime before the word "needy" made it fully past the angel's lips. But Gadreel didn't stop, his insults hurled fast and ruthless, and the whistle of the angel blade only stopped when Dean caught the calm expression on the now-bloody angel's face right before he drove it through Gadreel's heart.

"No," Gadreel pleaded, his tone shifting rapidly to one of pure desperation as Dean paused. "No. Do it. Kill me. KILL ME!"

Dean took a step back and regarded his prisoner curiously. "Yeah I don't think so. See, you're not afraid to die," he said, quickly putting the pieces together. "You're afraid to be left in these chains forever. So how about I just let you sit here and rot, you son of a bitch."

And with that, Dean strode from the room, trying not to let the blade shake too much in his unsteady hand as he made his way into the moldy bathroom of the factory, throwing it quickly into one of the sinks. He bent over the next one, taking a moment to be grateful that the water was still turned on before splashing some across his face. He hadn't meant to, but he caught his own reflection in the mirror, pausing to regard the stranger before him. The man staring back had more wrinkles than Dean remembered, the jagged bones of his cheeks pushing forcefully against his skin, hardening his expression to one of ferocity. He examined the dark eyes, the even darker circles beneath them, smearing a hand across the glass to make sure it wasn't just the dust distorting his image.

It wasn't.

Dean wondered what Sam thought when he looked at his big brother now. He wondered if Sam knew exactly when Dean had started to lose himself, when the lines of his face had begun to hollow out and die. And then he figured that seeing as Sam barely looked at him anymore, the answer was probably 'no.' That same unreasonable fury started to rise inside Dean's chest, the Mark on his arm pounding in rhythm with his hammering heart. All he knew in that moment was that he needed to destroy something.

He needed to forget.

* * *

**I may post the next chapter early just because I want to get on to the good stuff as soon as possible and there' still some 'copycat' stuff from the show thrown in there. So I'm thinking I can post chapter 10 on Saturday or something and then go back to the Monday/Thursday postings. Anyways, I'll stop talking now. Until next time =). **

**P.S. I lied about not talking anymore. This is super random, but I've been listening to the song "Coward" by Hayden Calnin a lot while I'm writing this. The lyrics have literally nothing to do with the story but whatever. On that same note, I'm always looking for new music so feel free to message me with suggestions! (yes I know, random)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Here's the next chapter, as promised! (still pretty much following 9x18)**

* * *

If Dean were in the Impala right now, Sam probably would've gotten his ass kicked for the way he was driving it. As it was, Sam hit redial for a fifth time, a deep, too-familiar pit of fear growing in his stomach as it went to voicemail again.

"Dean. Metatron took Cas. I need you to pick up. Come on, man." Sam all but screamed into the phone, hanging up in frustration as he tore around the next corner. He had been caught off guard by Metatron's brief presence in Cas's hotel room, almost certain that the angel was intent on killing him. If not for the fact that they had Gadreel hostage, Sam imagined he would have. Finally back at the factory, Sam cut the engine and clambered from the car, sprinting inside and up the stairs to where they were holding Gadreel.

His heart stopped.

The chair that had once held the angel was now overturned, small splatters of dark red blood surrounding it.

"Dean," Sam whispered breathlessly, eyes scanning the quiet (too quiet, way too quiet) room. "Dean!" he repeated louder this time, not caring if it was unwise to do so when he didn't know where Gadreel was. He caught sight of his brother a moment later, but the panic didn't abate. Because Dean was there, but he was sprawled out against the far wall. And he wasn't moving.

"Dean!" Sam called again as he reached the slumped, but still conscious form of his brother, eyes widening as he took in Dean's split knuckles and the bloody body of the unconscious angel lying just a few feet away. Gadreel looked wrecked, his face a mess of blood and bruises, wrists still securely fastened by the handcuffs.

"You okay?" Sam asked, turning back to his brother.

"Yeah. You gotta stop asking me that." Dean was quick to respond, but he seemed dazed, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

"I've been calling you!" Sam shook his head, relief wearing off enough that the anger came once again to the forefront. "Why didn't you..."

"He won't talk," Dean broke in, as if not hearing the words spoken by the taller man leaning over him. His eyes finally focused on Sam, wide and uncertain. "He wanted to die. And I was gonna kill him, I was...but then I stopped because I know we need him to talk."

The inflection of the words scared Sam. Dean wasn't acting like himself, didn't sound like the big brother Sam had known his entire life. There was a rare vulnerability in that tone, a brokenness that seeped out through every syllable and made it hard for Sam to focus on anything else. But there _was_ more to focus on, so Sam pushed his fears aside for the moment.

"Dean listen," he said. "Metatron has Cas. He's offering up a trade."

"We can't trust Metatron," Dean said. Sam ignored the fact that it sounded like Dean was asking a question.

"I..I know that. Obviously," he replied. "But think about it Dean. This is the first time we're going to know exactly where Metatron is. So let's make the exchange, Cas for Gadreel, and then we trap Metatron."

Dean stared with that same lost expression a moment longer before nodding.

"Okay. Let's go," Sam urged. He straightened up, walking the necessary few feet until he was standing beside Gadreel, amazed by the amount of damage Dean had managed to inflict. He wished it had been his own fists. It would've been a sweet kind of justice. Shaking the thought, Sam bent low and reached for the angel, hauling him up into a fireman's carry and casting one more glance towards Dean before making his way back down the stairs towards the Impala. He dumped Gadreel's prone form into the trunk, checked the angel warding, and then closed it with a satisfactory slam, slightly surprised by the fact that Dean had yet to join him. He waited another minute or so, fingers drumming impatiently against the hood of the Impala as he leaned against it. Still nothing.

Sam sighed, hauling himself upright and striding swiftly back towards the factory, once again climbing the stairs. His forehead wrinkled in confusion when he saw that Dean had virtually disappeared, no longer sitting on the floor where Sam had left him.

"Dean!" he called for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. "D-"

"What?" Dean appeared at the entrance to the bathroom, wiping the last remnants of blood from his knuckles.

"W..We gotta go," Sam said, feeling stupid for getting worked up so quickly.

Dean nodded, clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder as he passed. The familiarity of the gesture calmed Sam slightly, and he followed his brother back out to the car, sliding into the passenger seat as the Impala spurred to life, speeding back toward's Cas's hotel room.

* * *

"He's late," Sam said. The brothers were leaning against the Impala, situated in the parking lot outside of Castiel's hotel, so far with no sign of Metatron.

"Maybe he's not coming," Dean replied.

"Of course I came."

Sam and Dean whipped around to face the sudden arrival. Metatron smiled disdainfully at them, as if acknowledging the presence of two particularly troublesome rodents.

"I was just waiting for you to finish setting up your little trap for me." Metatron walked quite deliberately into the middle of the ring of holy oil that Sam had poured just moments ago, invisible to the naked eye. "Am I hitting my mark?" he asked, watching gleefully as Sam and Dean shared an uncertain look.

"Well come on. I'm waiting," Metatron goaded.

Dean paused momentarily but then proceeded to flick open the lighter he'd been holding, letting it fall to the pavement as a ring of holy fire sprang up around Metatron. The brothers watched as the angel began to cough violently, his face scrunched in pain as the flames licked at his feet. But the coughing stopped just as suddenly as it began, morphing instead into a throaty, mocking laugh. Sam glanced at his brother, then back at Metatron who continued to laugh, pausing only to blow out the holy fire in one dramatic exhale.

The Winchesters charged simultaneously, angel blades no longer concealed beneath their jackets, but one half-hearted swipe of Metatron's hand had them flying back against the Impala, both blades clattering onto the pavement. Metatron walked casually towards the trunk, motioning as he did so to another car that immediately began to crawl its way slowly to where the brothers were standing. Cas exited the car a moment later, surrounded by three angels. Sam was so relieved to see Cas alive that he almost missed the way Metatron's hand swiped once more along the Impala, erasing the angel warding beneath the trunk and unlatching Gadreel's handcuffs in one seemingly effortless motion.

"Well, a deal is a deal," Metatron grinned, allowing Cas to make his way over to Dean's side while Gadreel limped slowly towards the three waiting angels.

"Why are you doing this?" Dean asked roughly.

Metatron's demeanor seemed to alter almost immediately, his eyes hardening and his smile gone as he strode towards Dean. "Because I can. Because you and your little brother and your fine-feathered friend, and all the secrets you've got locked away in that bunker can't stop me. But I'm going to enjoy watching you try." He paused to glare at Cas. "Never forget Castiel, I gave you a chance."

And with that, he disappeared.

* * *

**Let me know what you thought if you have time. Next update is on Monday! **


	11. Chapter 11

**Posting early-ish (technically it's Monday here) because I'll be gone all day. But anyways, after the first couple paragraphs of this chapter, the story goes AU for the most part (finally). There's some integration of things from the show, but hopefully it's still original enough =). Enjoy!**

* * *

The ride back to Castiel's motel was a silent one. Dean shifted uncharacteristically in the driver's seat, opening his mouth several times in an attempt to speak, but the words never came. He couldn't really process yet, and it wasn't until the three of them were climbing from the Impala that he finally spoke, if only to voice his confusion.

"Can someone explain to me what the hell is going on?" he asked.

"Metatron is trying to play God," Cas replied, jaw clenching.

"_Play_ God?" Sam snorted dismally. "Cas he wiped out angel warding...he friggin' blew out holy fire. He _is_ God. He's powering up with the angel tablet. How the hell are we supposed to stop this guy?"

Dean shook his head. "We just gotta find some way to catch him off guard. Turn some of his followers against him or something. We'll figure it out, but for now, we gotta get back to the bunker. Keep looking for..."

"For what Dean?" Sam rolled his eyes. "We've got nothing and you know it."

"Well then what do you suggest?" Dean snapped back, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He rolled back on his heels and tried to shake off the sudden wave of nausea that overtook him, but it didn't go unnoticed by Cas.

"Are you alright?" the angel asked, reaching a hand out to steady the elder hunter. "You seem different."

Dean shook off the help, patting Cas's shoulder instead in an attempt to right himself more discreetly, but Cas caught his arm and didn't let go, pulling at the sleeve of his jacket until the Mark of Cain shone a sickly yellow color under the glow of the motel sign.

Cas's eyes widened. "What have you done?"

Dean ripped his arm from Cas's hold, pushing his sleeve back over the raised skin and backing towards the Impala. "It's a means to an end."

"Dammit Dean." Cas's gaze remained fixed on Dean's arm, and Sam didn't miss the brief flare of panic behind his eyes before he regained control, letting anger once again harden his features. Dean glanced briefly at Sam, then back at Cas, defenses up.

"Look, you find Heaven, you drop a dime. In the meantime, I've got a Knight to kill," he snapped at Cas, climbing quickly into the car and motioning for Sam to do the same. Sam paused, turning back to Cas.

"Take care of yourself," Sam said, slapping a hand across Cas's back.

"Sam," Cas said, eyes still on the now hunched figure in the driver's seat. "Keep an eye on him."

Sam nodded, shifting to slide into the passenger seat. Dean had his foot on the gas before Sam could even close his door completely, swerving violently onto the road, back towards the bunker. Sam dragged a hand over his face, trying to force down all the questions he had, all the fear and anger that welled up inside him when he thought, not for the first time, about what Dean had gotten himself into this time. The truth was, they had no idea what this Mark meant. They had no idea how this would end, and Sam was inclined to believe that, based on prior experience, it could only end bloody. He tilted his head to regard his brother, who stoically chose to ignore him.

Dean was wrapped up in his own head, fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel as he tried not to think too much about what Cas's reaction meant. It wasn't as if Dean were oblivious to the changes the Mark had brought on. For one thing, he was angry. All the time. Unless that Blade was humming reassuringly against his fingertips, Dean was constantly on edge, a grenade just waiting to be set off by the smallest things, the most innocent comments. _Bloodthirsty_, Dean thought, immediately trying to shove the word back down the way it had come. Because no matter how far off the tracks Dean had gone in his life, he had always held onto some kind of balance. He had never taken it past the point of his own control, not even when he had been turned into a vampire and was forced to resist the urge to feed. Even that had been manageable. Extremely difficult, but manageable. This? This pull felt different. Stronger. And it scared him.

The rest of the drive back to Lebanon passed in silence, though Sam would occasionally inhale deeply, as if he were about to say something. He never did though, and he never really took his eyes off of his brother either. Dean bristled under the scrutiny, but never called Sam on it, choosing the continued quiet over another inevitable argument that would follow if either one of them opened their mouths. They arrived at the bunker hours later, both climbing stiffly from the car and making their way to their respective rooms with nothing more than a cursory nod at one another.

* * *

Dean collapsed onto his bed, pulling out his iPod and shuffling through a few songs before tossing it to the side in frustration. He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back against the pillows with a deep sigh, trying to let his muscles relax. But the longer he lay there, the more tense he seemed to become, his vision blurring in a way that signified dizziness rather than exhaustion. His stomach shifted uneasily, nausea overtaking him without warning, just as it had back at Cas's motel. A few minutes later, the sensation had become unbearable. Dean stumbled into the nearest bathroom, collapsing against the toilet just in time to cough a mess of blood into the bowl, stomach convulsing violently. He shuddered as another wave of dizziness overtook him, choking against the blood still clogged in his throat. Finally, he was able to regain his feet and make his way to the sink, immediately splashing water across his face and into his mouth in an attempt to wash out the taste of iron. After a few deep breaths, Dean pushed himself completely upright, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he made his way quickly from the bathroom and back towards the kitchen. He paced for a few minutes there and waited for the residual nausea to pass, unsure of what he needed or wanted at the moment. His eyes flickered over to the liquor cabinet, but if he was being honest with himself, Dean knew that wasn't what he wanted.

No, what he _wanted_ was to jump into the mind of another demon, just as he had back at _Melvin's_. Dean had thought he'd been careful to wipe the blood from his clothes afterwards, but Sam had still noticed the stain on his jacket sleeve, and Dean knew his brother was no doubt still curious about exactly what had happened during what was meant to have been just a quick food run.

Dean had taken the demon out the moment it left the diner, smashing the butt of Ruby's knife against the side of its face and dragging it back to the Impala. Then it had just been a matter of finding an abandoned parking lot nearby, performing the necessary spell, and then falling into the demon's thoughts, letting the blood and smoke fill every corner of his already disturbed mind. He had killed the demon afterwards, making sure not to leave a mess behind.

But now that he had a chance to think about it, it all seemed just a little too perfect. That demon walking into _Melvin's_ just as Dean had been leaving, not bothering to hide the fact that its eyes were completely black. What were the chances of that happening, even to him?

Dean stopped pacing suddenly as his thoughts finally untangled themselves, forming the picture he should've seen all along.

With no more than a second's hesitation, he strode purposefully toward the dungeon, finding the necessary supplies he needed amongst the countless shelves and boxes shoved against the walls there. Placing a black bowl on the ground in front of the large devil's trap already painted onto the floor, he began to mix in the necessary ingredients, dropping a lit match into the mix when everything was in place and watching the flame spark to life in front of him, pupils dancing as they caught the fire's reflection. Crowley appeared moments later, already rolling his eyes as he regarded the eldest Winchester.

"Look Squirrel," Crowley drawled. "I can't handle all this back and forth. You've recently made it quite clear that my presence isn't warranted, yet here you are, summoning me for a little get together. Past my bedtime, I might add. So which is it? Are we friend or foe?"

"Did you send that demon to that diner?" Dean growled, not bothering to address Crowley's sarcastic remarks.

"Excuse me?" The demon raised his eyebrows.

"Look, I know it was you," Dean said. "I know you've been watching us and I know you saw me..." he paused, and shook his head, unable to finish the thought. So Crowley finished it for him.

"Saw you slosh your way through that demon's brain like a kid on Christmas? Yeah, I suppose I did. And listen, I don't blame you. Intoxicating stuff. And it's been a few days hasn't it? You must be desperate to have another go, yeah?"

"Shut up," Dean growled, turning away from the King of Hell as the edges of his vision began to blur again. He closed his eyes against the onslaught, sensing Crowley's gaze on his back. "Why'd you do it?" he asked when it had passed.

"Do what?"

"Just hand a demon over to me like that," Dean replied, turning to face Crowley once more.

Crowley shrugged. "Wanted to see what you'd do mate. I got curious after you asked me about summoning demons that worked for Abaddon and not me, so I sent you one of my double agents, told him to play up the fact that he was working for Abaddon once you caught him. Though I doubt you bothered to ask," he smirked. "Anyway, I said I wanted some information from you, but that I'd come get him before you'd have a chance to kill him. Lied about that last part."

Dean clenched his jaw as the pieces clicked into place, swallowing against the bile that had climbed its way to his throat.

"So what are you waiting for then?" Crowley asked, eyes skittering down to the devil's trap that confined him and then landing back on Dean.

"What?"

"Well you're going to let me out aren't you? That's why you summoned me. So we can go find another demon for you to swap heads with?"

Dean froze, terrified by how enticing that idea was. He took to pacing again a second later in an attempt to ground himself, not able to meet Crowley's eyes as he mulled over his options.

This shouldn't even be a consideration, Dean knew. But he also knew that the longer he went without this demon-sight crap, the worse he felt. As if to drive the point home, Dean's stomach chose that moment to do a backflip, and he twisted to face away from Crowley as blood spurted from his mouth once more.

"Dean?" Crowley's tone was one of uncharacteristic concern, and Dean could hear him shuffling towards the farthest boundary of the devil's trap in an attempt to reach him. Dean just shook his head and held up a hand to signify that Crowley should give him a second, coughing a few more times before straightening back up, leaving a small pool of blood on the floor.

The hunter and demon regarded each other silently, Crowley with eyebrows raised, Dean dabbing at a little bit of blood still clinging to his bottom lip.

"Alright, here's the deal," he said after a moment. "I let you out of here if you promise to hand over the First Blade." Crowley grinned and quirked an eyebrow at the hunter, beginning to pace the tiny space within the devil's trap.

"I thought we agreed I would hold onto it until you found Abaddon," he replied.

"And now I'm renegotiating," Dean sneered. "Look as of now, you're still valuable. You'll probably be able to find Abaddon before we can. I promise I won't go after you until she's dead..and maybe if I'm feeling generous, I'll even offer you a head start."

Crowley stopped pacing, still smiling as he turned to face Dean. "Fine," he said. "You've got a deal I suppose. After our little adventure I'll go fetch you your precious blade. Now can we please go get you your fix before you get even more moody and controlling? I swear, the attitudes on you Winchesters..."

Dean winced at the word 'fix' but stepped forward to stand directly in front of Crowley, reaching down to scrape away a small portion of the devil's trap with his knife until Crowley could get free.

"Alright," Dean said, getting to his feet once more. "Let's go."

* * *

**See you Thursday! Thank you so much for reading!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Here's a bit of a longer chapter for you today- hope you enjoy! **

* * *

Dean was nowhere to be found when Sam trudged his way into the kitchen the next morning, making a quick stop at their frequently used coffeemaker and taking his steaming cup to what he imagined would be known as their dining room, settling into one of the large wooden chairs and opening up his laptop. His initial plan was to check the papers for a case, seeing as they had nothing on neither the Abaddon nor the Metatron front, but pretty soon he found himself getting up to dig through the Men of Letters archives for the thousandth time, searching for anything they'd missed on Heavenly gates or how to smoke out a Knight of Hell. It wasn't until a few hours later that he noticed the continued lack of activity. It had to be at least ten in the morning by now, yet Dean had yet to make an appearance. Sam couldn't remember the last time his brother had slept in past eight. He paused in his research, suddenly anxious. It was strange that Sam hadn't heard even the slightest noise in all this time. Even when they were avoiding each other (as they often were these days), the bunker was a fairly open space, and sound travelled easily across the echoing walls. Sliding from his chair, Sam made his was towards Dean's room, pulling out his gun as he did so. It was silly, he thought, but better safe than sorry. It was just so _quiet_. He paused outside the elder hunter's door, listening.

Nothing.

Sam turned the handle slowly, gun at his side as he pushed his way silently into the room, eyes sweeping the dark space. Dean was there on his stomach, face turned towards Sam, covers twisted haphazardly around his ankles. Unmoving. It was a weird kind of unease that settled over Sam. There was something wrong with the whole scenario. First, the sleeping in, and second, the fact that Dean had trained himself to wake at even the slightest noise. And even though Sam was quiet, he had _never_ been able to sneak up on his brother before. Not once. Moving slowly, Sam stepped completely into the room, leaving the door cracked so that the light from the hallway illuminated Dean's unconscious form, casting shadows across his face. Still, there was no change. Sam couldn't remember a time when Dean didn't shift in his sleep, at least a little. He was _always_ moving.

Sam didn't know why, but he had the sudden urge to make sure his brother was still breathing. It was inexplicable and irrational, just how badly Sam needed to see just one slight movement, to hear one soft exhale. He stepped closer, leaning in, the gun gripped loosely in his hand.

That one step was enough.

Dean was out of bed before Sam could even blink, body flipping expertly to the side of the mattress farthest from the door, hand reaching to grab the gun that rested on the bedside table there. It wasn't until his finger was positioned against the trigger that Dean's vision finally caught up with his movements and he flipped the safety back on, immediately dropping the gun onto the bedsheets, straightening up violently.

"What the hell Sam?" He bellowed, sweeping a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly with adrenaline.

"I..." Sam had no words, still frozen in shock at the speed at which his brother had moved. It had been fast even for Dean. Almost inhuman.

"Who the hell sneaks up on a guy while he's slee..." Dean paused, his gaze finally landing on the Taurus gripped in his little brother's hand. "Sam...?" he asked warily, eyes flickering back and forth between Sam's face and the gun.

"No I...Dean I didn't hear you get up. It's past ten and it was so quiet...I thought maybe something happened so I was coming to see if you were okay..." Sam tried to explain, immediately placing the weapon lightly on the tall dresser nearest the door. "Dean," he said, turning back to his brother, "I was just checking on you. You never sleep this late."

Dean nodded slowly, his eyes still darting back and forth; first towards the clock on the nightstand to check the time, then back to the gun, then at Sam.

"There's uh, there's coffee ready and I was gonna maybe make some eggs or something if you...wanted some?" Sam said after another moment.

"Yeah okay," Dean replied, rolling out his shoulders and moving to put his own gun back on the nightstand. He then proceeded to straighten out the sheets on his bed as he did every morning, a ritual instilled in both of them by their father that Dean still followed after all these years, though Sam had given it up long ago. Not knowing what else to do, Sam left his brother's room and made his way to the kitchen, pulling out a skillet and a carton of eggs to start breakfast.

Dean joined Sam just as he was divvying up the eggs he'd cooked, placing half on a plate for his brother with a slice of toast on the side. Dean mumbled his thanks, grabbed his plate, and immediately disappeared down the hall. Sam watched him go, considered following, and then sat down at the table with his eggs and a tall glass of water.

* * *

The next few days passed with mind-numbing routine. Sam awoke early, went for a run, ate, and then settled back into what seemed like a fruitless search for answers on where Abaddon might be and where Metatron might strike next. It was a miserable way to pass the time, even for Sam, who had always enjoyed research. There was just no system to this kind of research. It was just shuffling through ancient papers and the most recent news articles, hoping an answer or a tracking spell or _something_ would pop out of nowhere and give them a direction to go in.

Most of the time all he found was more nothing.

"We gotta go." Dean's gruff voice interrupted Sam's thoughts one morning as he was polishing off the last of his breakfast. He watched as Dean shuffled his way towards the sink to discard of his empty plate before turning to face Sam. They ate in separate rooms a lot now, with Dean always drifting off to some distant room to work on his own research...or stare at the walls all day, Sam had no way of knowing.

"What's up?" Sam asked, standing quickly to get rid of his own plate.

"Cas just called," Dean said, shaking his phone in the air. "Says he's got an idea on where this doorway to Heaven is. Somewhere in Stillwater Oklahoma. Needs our help."

"He needs our help getting into Heaven? Isn't that kind of off limits for us?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "All I know is he asked for our help. You coming or not?"

"Yeah, coming."

The ride to Oklahoma was turning out to be another silent one with the exception of the music humming softly (softer than usual, thought Sam) through the speakers. After a while, it became unbearable.

"So what do you think we can do?" Sam asked.

"What do you mean?"

"With this whole Heaven thing. I mean we're not really the best people to call in this situation. Mostly because we're, uh, _people_. It's just kind of weird isn't it? Doesn't Cas have all his angel followers to help out with stuff like this?"

Dean was silent for a while, tapping his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. "I don't know," he finally replied, eyes still on the road. "Maybe he just doesn't trust them. It's hard to know who's really on your side sometimes."

"Right but still," Sam pressed, "I'm just not sure what we'll be able to do..."

"That's why we're going Sam," Dean interrupted, suddenly annoyed. "Cas will fill us in. If we can somehow help in getting the angels back to Heaven, I'll do whatever it takes."

Sam sighed, not wanting to push anymore. He could easily see this attempt at conversation turning into another fight, and he would rather take the silence for the next four hours than fall into another pointless feud. _Whatever it takes_, he thought dully, casting a glance at his brother's right forearm where he knew the Mark still rested, currently concealed under his jacket sleeve. _That was always your problem, wasn't it Dean?_

* * *

Cas looked nervous.

It took a while for Dean to identify the expression worn by the usually stoic angel, and when he finally did, it only served to hike up his own anxiety.

"What's up Cas?" Dean asked as he stepped out of the Impala and made his way over to where Cas stood. They had parked in front of the Sunlight Inn just outside of Stillwater as per Cas's instruction, though the building looked anything but "sunny." It shaped like a large brown "L," with thin white doors that spanned the inside wall every few feet and had taken on more of a faded rust color over the years. The thin morning drizzle that had begun to fall only added to the desolate picture. Cas stood right at the intersection of the "L" in front of room 12, his eyes flickering from Sam to Dean and back again as they walked over to stand just a few feet away.

"I'm glad you're here," Cas said, addressing them both. "We have been able to locate the doorway, but we don't have much time before it moves again. We'll have only a small window within which to strike."

"That's good Cas," Sam said, casting a quick glance towards the sky as the rain picked up suddenly. "That's really good news. I"m guessing you've got a plan laid out? So can we head inside and see what you've got?" He moved towards the door to the motel room, only to have his way blocked, Cas's hand outstretched.

"Cas, what's wrong?" Sam asked warily, taking a step back towards Dean, who tilted his head to the side, regarding Cas curiously.

"What do you mean 'we'?" Dean asked. "Your angel buddies finally cracked the code? I feel like if that were the case, you wouldn't really need our help too, right?"

Sam had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Dean was bringing up the exact concern that had almost ended in an argument between them hours earlier. But as Sam watched Cas stiffen, eyes now resting on Dean, he focused his attention back on the current situation.

"No I..it has become increasingly difficult to trust my brothers and sisters, even those who have sworn their loyalty to me. With something like this, I can only afford the assistance of those who will not betray me. That's..sort of why we're meeting like this," Cas said. "There's something you should know before we attempt to go through with this plan. Something that might deter you from helping me."

"What?" both brothers asked simultaneously.

"It's difficult to explain..." Cas hedged, and Sam didn't miss the way his eyes slid towards the door of the motel as he spoke.

"Cas. Spill." Dean growled. But Sam wasn't in the mood to wait for an explanation. Four and a half hours in the car with an irrational brother would do that to you. So he pushed his way past a protesting Cas and reached for the door, twisting the handle violently and opening it wide.

Everyone froze, including the tall figure standing just inside the room. Sam's voice cut through the silence a moment later, harsh and disbelieving.

"Gadreel?"

* * *

**Cliffhangers are great, aren't they? Okay, don't answer that lol. Anyways, feedback is great (as usual) and thanks so much for your continued interest!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Sorry to post so late- got the wisdom teeth out today and decided to lay around the house and do nothing as a result (aka, a Supernatural marathon with my brother haha) =). Anyways, without further ado...**

* * *

"What the fuck." Dean's reaction was completely deadpan, his face a mess of inquisitive lines as he stared at the angel he had tortured to the point of unconsciousness a little over a week ago. His right hand moved automatically for the First Blade before remembering that he had left it in the trunk. Dean still hadn't found a way to explain to Sam how he'd gotten it back after his little trip with the King of Hell, so for now it remained buried in his duffel, though he could still feel its presence as if it were mere inches from his grasp. Somewhat distracted by the hum of the blade, Dean couldn't think of anything else to say. So he just repeated the phrase, this time directing his words towards Cas.

But Cas's attention was completely on Sam, who had snapped out of his momentary shock and was now launching himself through the doorway towards Gadreel, angel blade sliding easily from his pocket and into his hand. Gadreel backed away quickly into the farthest corner of the room, using the bed as a buffer, but there was nowhere for him to go and Sam had covered the distance between them within seconds, blade pressed up against the angel's throat.

"Sam..." Cas cautioned, moving to stand beside Gadreel, both of their hands up in a show of surrender. Dean seemed to realize their lack of privacy, following Cas quickly into the motel room and shutting the door behind him.

"You can start that explanation of yours now," Sam said. "But it better be a good one."

"I understand your anger Sam," Gadreel said, holding the taller Winchester's gaze. "But I assure you, I mean only to help. I have recently seen a side to Metatron that I am not willing to stand behind, and Castiel has graciously allowed me to join his ranks. My only desire is to return my brothers and sisters to Heaven; to rebuild all that we have lost."

Sam rolled his eyes, but the angel blade in his hand moved slightly away from the exposed skin of Gadreel's neck. "And why the hell would we believe that you've suddenly decided to up and switch loyalties?" he asked.

"Sam please," Cas cut in, trying to angle himself between Sam's blade and Gadreel. Sam took a reluctant step back to keep from hurting Cas on accident, but his posture remained tense. "Gadreel and I have come to an understanding. He knows the location of Heaven's door and has promised to take us there."

"Come on Cas. How does that _not_ sound like a trap to you? I mean you just said you couldn't trust anyone. Now you want to trust _him_?" Dean interjected, shaking his head.

"I assure you this is not a trick," Gadreel said. "I would not dare go back on my word. There is too much at stake here, and Metatron has become unreasonable. He..I've watched him slaughter my brothers and sisters. He is not suited to rule Heaven, and I am not inclined to allow him to continue to gain any more power than he already has. He must be stopped."

"I'm sorry...your word?" Dean stepped forward, a humorless smile pulling at his lips. "We're supposed to take you at your _word_? Yeah, I don't make the same mistakes twice. I trusted you once, and look how that turned out."

"How would you stop Metatron?" Sam asked suddenly, lowering the angel blade to his side. Both Cas and Gadreel seemed to breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief, though Dean's reaction was quite the opposite.

"Sam what the hell?" he asked. Sam silenced him with a look, turning back to face the two angels in front of him.

"I mean what's your plan exactly? And why do you need us if you know the door's location?" he asked.

"The door is guarded," Cas said. "We need you to distract those who protect it while Gadreel and I seek out Metatron and the angel tablet. Destroying that tablet is the only way to defeat him- once it's destroyed, he will once again be nothing more than an ordinary angel."

"And then what?" Dean asked.

"What do you mean?" Cas stared at Dean in confusion.

"I mean you know he needs to die, right?" Dean said, beginning to pace the small room. "You can't go all high and mighty on us and decide to lock him up somewhere. This needs to end for good. The First Blade will kill him just fine if you're going to have a problem with that."

"Dean.."

"No Cas. There's no debate here. Metatron dies, or I march up to Heaven on my own and take care of it."

"I gotta say I agree with him Cas," Sam said, taking another step away from Gadreel, angel blade now migrating slowly back towards the pocket of his jacket. "Leaving Metatron alive after everything just seems too risky. But we'll help however we can."

"Okay. I understand," Cas nodded. He made his way over to the small desk in the corner of the room, grabbing a marked map and handing it over to Sam. "This is the current location of the door. It's very close, maybe a thirty minute drive for you. Gadreel and I will meet you there. We need you in position before we arrive so that our entrance will be as quick as possible. We don't want Metatron to be alerted with enough time to move the doorway."

"So we're doing this now then?" Dean said, striding over to Sam and glancing down at the map, upon which a route had been meticulously scrawled out and highlighted, the final destination marked with a large black "X".

"Is that a problem?" Cas asked. It would've sounded sarcastic coming from anyone else, but Cas just sounded concerned.

"No." Dean smiled a little, shaking his head. "No, I'm just surprised you think we're ready. I mean we've really only got one good shot at this. Gotta make sure we're prepared."

"I'm afraid we _have_ to be ready Dean," Cas replied, his eyes darkening. "This is the best chance we've had, and as you said, this needs to end. So we leave in an hour."

Dean raised his eyebrows and shot a look at his brother. Sam smirked a little and shrugged. It was nice to see Cas in action like this and, if Sam was being honest, it was nice to let someone else take the lead for once. Someone who wasn't his big brother.

Things were different now. Even when they had been fighting in the past, Sam had always believed wholeheartedly that Dean knew what he was doing; that he would make the best of a bad situation and that somehow, he would always make the right call. But lately something had shifted. For Sam, it had started when he had learned the truth about Gadreel, when he had realized just how much Dean was willing to sacrifice just to keep him alive. And now, the Mark of Cain had made Sam even less confident in his brother's ability to lead them in the right direction. There was an underlying tension to Dean now, a distracted aftertaste to the words he uttered and the way he held himself. So yeah, Sam realized he was okay with Cas taking point on this one.

He just hoped that for the first time in a long time, things would go their way.

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**Next update is Thursday. Thanks for reading/reviewing!**


	14. Chapter 14

It was raining hard by the time the brothers pulled into the parking lot of the shabby strip mall that had been exactly thirty minutes away, just as Cas had calculated. Dean pulled the Impala into a spot that was a good distance away from the building they planned on entering, letting out a breath as he surveyed their surroundings.

"Can't say I would've predicted that the doorway to Heaven would be inside a pizza joint. I feel like burgers are a little more heavenly, don't you think?" he quipped. Sam smiled a little and shook his head in amusement, casting a glance at the unimposing building with _Vincent's_ _Pizzeria_ spelled out in large red letters. A few pedestrians were wandering the length of the strip mall, though many had been discouraged by the rain, leaving the parking lot mostly vacant.

"Ready?" Sam asked, subconsciously feeling for the gun tucked into his jacket. He switched it over to the waistband of his jeans, and then glanced back at his brother.

Dean nodded and Sam got out of the car, quickly making his way to the trunk and opening it, attempting to duck underneath it to escape the worst of the rain. He flipped open the hidden compartment that housed their arsenal, grabbing an angel blade and a few small flasks of holy oil that had been filled prior to their departure. As he continued to peruse the contents of the trunk, he noticed a new addition to the set-up he had long since memorized. A thick gold cloth was tucked against the far left side of the compartment, wrapped around something thick and heavy looking. Sam reached for it curiously, wondering if it was another angel blade Dean had stored last minute, or maybe a vat of holy oil.

Somehow, Dean's hand got there first, his fingers shooting out to grab for the cloth while simultaneously shoving Sam aside. The reaction seemed automatic and instinctive, Dean's fingers sliding naturally along the shape of whatever was beneath the cloth and pulling it quickly back into the side pocket of his jacket.

"Really Dean?" Sam growled. "What is that?"

And even as the words left his mouth, Sam knew. He knew exactly what it was.

"Crowley gave you the First Blade," he stated cooly, suddenly oblivious to the rain soaking into his jacket.

"Yeah."

Just 'yeah.' Like it was no big deal. Like the fact that Dean now carried an ancient, brutal weapon with unknown side effects wouldn't have been something Sam needed to know before they ran blindly into a damn pizza place to take on who knows how many angels, guns blazing. Sam huffed out a disbelieving breath and shook his head.

"And you were going to mention this to me when?" he finally managed to grind out after a moment, resisting the urge to start throwing punches. They needed to get moving soon, Sam knew. The Impala was probably pretty well known at this point (by angels and demons alike), and there was only so long they could stand in this parking lot before one of Metatron's followers caught on. Even so, he couldn't just let this go. The fact that Dean had neglected to share this information with him seemed like yet another betrayal, one that could've been easily avoided if his big brother was using half his brain.

"I'm telling you now," Dean muttered. He had the good sense to at least look embarrassed, but it did nothing to quell Sam's anger. The rain continued to pelt down as the brothers stared at each other, water running down both of their faces, weapons grasped loosely in their hands.

"How long have you had it?" Sam finally asked.

"Look, can we not do this now? Can we just be happy for the insurance and go gank some angels? Cas and Gadreel will be here any minute," Dean reasoned, gesturing to _Vincent's Pizzeria_ with one hand, the other beginning to unwrap the cloth around the Blade. He tossed the cloth back inside the trunk and slammed it shut, the First Blade now exposed, shimmering menacingly as raindrops slid down its jagged edge and onto the ground.

Sam nodded, knowing that regardless of how he felt right now, they needed to move. "Fine," he said, stuffing the angel blade and holy oil into his pocket and starting to make his way towards the pizzeria. Dean followed after him, Blade now also hidden, moving quickly towards the entrance. The first step of the plan was to avoid civilian casualties, which had certainly been well managed by the storm, though the brothers had no way of knowing whether there were any innocent bystanders who had still decided to stop in for a pizza at the worst possible time. Priority number one would be clearing those people out. The next step was basically to create the biggest distraction possible, allowing for Gadreel and Cas to make their entrance and quickly get through the doorway and into Heaven. Simple on paper, but there were a ton of factors involved. A ton of things that could go terribly wrong. _As usual_, Sam thought glumly as they approached the door.

Sam motioned for Dean to follow after him, but before he could make the first move, Dean straightened up suddenly. He winked at Sam and then proceeded to stroll through the door like he owned the place, a cocky smile plastered on his face. Sam froze, emotions ranging from surprise to fury in the span of just a few seconds before he automatically straightened up to follow after Dean, unwilling to let his brother's newest suicide run become a success.

Dean approached the young, blonde woman behind the front counter of _Vince's_, resting his elbow casually against it. Though as Sam came to stand beside his brother, he could see that Dean's right hand was wrapped around the Blade in his pocket. Dean glanced around the diner, taking inventory of all the empty tables; not a pedestrian in sight. According to Gadreel's intel, all so-called employees at _Vince's_ were in fact angels, and Sam caught sight of a few of them through the window leading to the kitchen, though none had seemed to notice their entrance quite yet. The blonde behind the counter was also oblivious, busy pressing buttons on the cash register in front of her. She didn't bother looking up until Dean spoke.

"Hey sweetheart, you guys do carryout right?" Dean smiled, waggling his eyebrows at her.

The girl looked up from her cash register and stiffened the moment her eyes rested on Dean. He continued to grin, even as her mouth curled into a threatening scowl.

"Winchester," she snarled, reaching for her hidden angel blade with practiced speed and precision.

But Dean was quicker.

Before Sam could blink, the First Blade was buried in the angel's chest, her hand frozen halfway to retrieving her weapon, mouth flying open in shock as white light began to seep out from every part of her, enveloping the room. Sam winced as her final piercing scream filled the air. He pulled out his own angel blade as the remaining angels became aware of the Winchesters' presence. There were at least seven more, Sam counted quickly as they flooded through the kitchen door and stalked towards the front counter. He could almost find it funny, these guardians of Heaven with dough-covered aprons and visors with _Vincent's_ scrawled across the front, except for the fact that they all also held their own angel blades. And they all looked pissed as hell.

Dean seemed frozen in place, still standing near the front counter where the blonde angel had fallen, not reacting when Sam called his name. Sam took a panicked step back towards the entrance, trying to gain a few more seconds before they were completely under attack. He reached out a hand in an attempt to pull Dean with him, not daring to take his eyes off of the squadron of angels advancing on them. His fingers found the solid shape of Dean's forearm a second later, and he almost wished he hadn't. Dean was practically _vibrating_, breathing hard, the First Blade still gripped in his hand. Luckily, the contact seemed to snap Dean out of his trance, and he shoved away from the counter just as an angel blade whistled through the air, mere inches from where he had been standing.

Sam didn't have time to check the expression on his brother's face because in the next second, the angels were upon them.

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**More to come on Thursday! I'd like to thank you guys for reading/reviewing as usual, and for those of you back in school/starting up again, best of luck this year!**


	15. Chapter 15

**I'm posting another chapter today in honor of MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul's birthday on Saturday. I won't be able to post tomorrow, so this'll have to do =). So...happy birthday, hope you enjoy!**

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Everything was happening in slow motion.

It was as if gravity had been made obsolete, the world now rotating backwards and sideways at the same time, somehow creating the clearest picture Dean had ever seen. He noticed each particle of dust, was aware of every strand of misplaced hair on the head of the angel he buried his blade into next. The angel that shrieked in pain as blood spurted from his chest, showering Dean in a sea of red even as he turned to face his next opponent. His body hummed with something more than adrenaline, a surging force that originated from somewhere inside him and converged at the raised Mark on his right arm. Dean was vaguely aware of his brother fighting beside him, but everything else was faded, distant. The only thing that seemed important was the feel of the Blade in his hand, and he found sick satisfaction in the screams of the third angel he brought it down upon.

Even as he slashed his way through yet another apron-clad angel, Dean was acutely aware of the exact moment Gadreel and Cas entered the restaurant. Both angels froze the moment the door closed behind them, taking in the chaos and searching for the only two people of concern. Dean managed to flash a reassuring grin when Cas's gaze finally landed on him, though this did nothing to ease the angel's terrified expression. Cas was clearly panicked, his eyes still roaming the room. _Sam_, Dean thought, spinning back towards the place he had last seen his little brother.

Sam had been backed, quite literally, into a corner, angel blade lying on the ground just out of reach. Two angels were moving slowly towards him, already grinning in victory. Dean could see Sam calculating the distances in his head: distance from his blade, distance between him and the angels. The odds weren't promising.

But again, Dean got there first.

The first angel got in a good swipe with her blade, opening up a thin line of red across Dean's arm. He barely felt it. She was dead in the next instant, her eyes wide and then consumed by the now expected, all-encompassing light. The second angel had been distracted by Dean's sudden appearance, giving Sam enough time to dive for his angel blade and sink it into the angel's chest. Another bright light. Another set of dead eyes.

And another still-living angel neither brother had noticed until his blade had sliced cleanly across Sam's stomach.

* * *

The world was moving slow again, but there was no satisfaction in it this time. Dean barely thought about anything at all as he barreled towards the last living angel, driving the First Blade straight into its heart. It wasn't enough though, so Dean followed the already-dead angel on its way towards the floor, slamming the Blade into him over and over again, even as white light enveloped them both.

"Sam?"

The sound of his brother's name uttered in Cas's distinct voice brought Dean back to the surface, though the rage refused to completely subside, even when he finally dropped the Blade and moved to kneel next to Cas and his brother. Gadreel stood off to the side, watching the scene with obvious concern, but unsure of his place. Sam had sunk to the floor after the angel had attacked him, blood soaking his front and spilling out between his fingers as he pressed them against the deep cut. And it _was_ deep, Dean could see that, even through Sam's tattered shirt.

Cas reached forward to heal him, but Sam shook his head.

"No Cas," he wheezed, "you're not strong enough."

"Sam, I won't let you d..."

"I will heal him," Gadreel interrupted, finally seeming to find his voice. He came to kneel beside Cas and the Winchesters, reaching a hand out somewhat hesitantly and resting it against Sam's ruined stomach. Dean shifted uncomfortably, but watched as the long gash began to disappear until the only evidence that Sam had ever been hurt was the mess of red still caked into his shirt.

"Thanks," Sam breathed, voice much stronger this time. He shoved off from the wall and got to his feet, Dean's hand on his arm the whole time, helping him up.

"You're okay?" Dean checked, giving his brother another once-over just in case. No matter how many close calls they had, no matter how many times an angel brought them back from the brink of death, Dean would never get used to it. It seemed too easy, a quick fix like that. Seemed so...temporary. Like a band-aid. But Sam nodded and clamped a hand on Dean's back, though his eyes were wary. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Sam spoke first.

"You guys should get going," he said to Cas and Gadreel. "It's only a matter of time before Metatron finds out what happened here- if he doesn't know already. So go. Take him out before he has a chance to make his next move."

Castiel nodded and motioned for Gadreel to follow him. They made their way towards the kitchen of the pizzeria, automatically being drawn towards the location of the Doorway that would take them home. Sam watched them go, only turning back to face Dean once both angels had disappeared through the swinging door, a bright white light shimmering out from underneath it and seeming to shake the whole foundation.

"Guess it's all on them now, huh?" Dean frowned. "You sure we shouldn't try to go after them and..." Dean coughed suddenly, turning towards the wall Sam had just been propped up against. He leaned into it as more coughs racked his body, blood dribbling from his mouth to mix with the blood of the angels that already covered much of the floor.

"Dean? Dean what's wrong?" Sam demanded, spinning Dean back around to face him. "Are you hurt? Did y..."

"No," Dean shrugged his brother off, the coughing fit seeming to end just as soon as it had begun. "No, I'm fine. We gotta get this place tidied up though, alright? Let's get all the weapons cleaned off and back in the trunk first. Then we can worry about the bodies."

Without waiting for a reply, Dean bent down to retrieve the First Blade, regarding it almost reverently as he attempted to swipe some of the blood off of it with the sleeve of his jacket. Sam watched him uneasily but chose to once again ignore his instincts and listen to his brother, helping him gather up all of the angel blades and flasks of holy oil (which they hadn't even had the chance nor the need to use) before discarding of the bodies. When it was done, they returned to _Vince's_ for one last clean sweep.

As Sam finished mopping up the sickening amount of blood on the floor, he realized this was getting to be a habit of his, this blatant disregard for the thoughts that screamed inside his head and begged to be acknowledged. This newest onslaught was one of the worst and sounded something like _"Your brother just slaughtered four angels like it was nothing. And kept swinging long after they were dead like some kind of animal. Your brother just coughed up blood. The last time someone was coughing up blood around here, it meant they (you) were dying. Talk to your brother. _Talk_ to your brother." _

Sam sat down heavily in one of the booths and waited for a now worn-out Dean to join him. They stared at each other from across the table.

Sam's mouth stayed closed.

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**Next update will hopefully be Monday as usual- I got mixed up and said Thursday on the last chapter, but it should be Monday. Have a great weekend and thanks so much for all your comments/support!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Kind of changing gears a little bit here and focusing on something besides Sam and Dean for once (a true rarity for me), so let me know what you think!**

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Heaven was hard to grasp, even for Castiel. There were so many facets and landscapes and spaces and places and rooms. So much doing and undoing that went on over the centuries that now it seemed to have become an unsolvable maze, a twisted road to nowhere that everyone followed anyway, hoping it would eventually lead them back home. Humans, angels, it didn't matter. They were all searching for the same thing.

Except now Cas found himself searching for something else: A solution. Or, more specifically, an all-powerful angel tablet that needed to be destroyed so that Metatron could also be destroyed.

Despite the havoc the angel had wrought, Castiel did not take the prospect of Metatron's death lightly. He was tired of angels fighting and he was tired of angels dying because like Heaven itself, this war was just another road with no end. A pointless endeavor. Still, he held onto a small sliver of hope that Metatron's death would be the last. That after all the destruction, his brothers and sisters would finally see that nothing good had come from seeking power that was never theirs to own or understand.

Cas had learned that lesson already, and it was difficult to watch his family make the same mistakes. They had to be stopped. And this was the way.

Gadreel and Castiel slid their way silently along the walls of Metatron's headquarters, somewhat disoriented from their short journey from a pizzeria in Oklahoma straight into the nerve center of Heaven. They had had to dispatch of several more angels guarding the other side of the doorway, and Cas could still feel the blood of his unsuspecting brothers and sisters on his fingertips, even as he and Gadreel finally reached the door to Metatron's "office."

It was easy to identify due to the nameplate hung proudly on the wall next to the door with Metatron's name scrawled in thick, polished font. Both Gadreel and Cas scoffed inwardly at the offending sign, though their stances stiffened as the shuffling of papers could be heard on the other side.

Despite the almost complete silence of the two angels, the door in front of them blew open a second later with a resounding _bang_.

"Ah, Castiel! And Gadreel! What a pleasant surprise. Do come in," Metatron jeered at them. He sat, grinning, behind a gaudy typewriter that rested atop a large wooden desk, papers scattered across it, and a pair of reading glasses propped onto the edge of his nose for purely theatrical purposes.

The whole "I've been expecting you" charade was getting to be unsettling, but Cas didn't let it show, moving cautiously into the large room with Gadreel only a few steps behind, their now bloody angel blades poised in front of them. As soon as both angels had stepped completely into the office, the door slammed behind them with disquieting finality.

"Now then," Metatron beamed, "what can I do for you two?"

"We've come to talk," Cas said, eyes flitting around the room, searching for the angel tablet. Metatron's unpleasant chortle resounded throughout the space, causing Cas to turn his attention back to the current ruler of Heaven.

"Talk?" Metatron laughed, gesturing to the angel blades in their hands. "Certainly doesn't _look_ like you came to talk. I must say I'm a bit disappointed. I would've expected more...elegance from you. Actually, I'd hoped you wouldn't try to get involved at all. I would've been so interested in hearing a nice long story of the life you'd lived, but now it seems it'll be ending too soon. I really did want to give you a second chance."

"You tore Heaven apart," Cas seethed, "and you expected me to just sit idly by and watch it happen?"

Metatron frowned, insulted. "I am _rebuilding_ Castiel. These things take time, and not everyone will be happy with the means to get there, but I assure you, it is worth it in the end. I am restoring _order, _and that restoration involves destruction."

"You do not have the right..." Gadreel cut in, taking another step towards Metatron, who stood up suddenly from the desk, his eyes flashing with the first visible signs of rage.

"Don't I?" he barked. "I don't see the Big Boss around anywhere handing out orders. God _gave up_. I'm simply picking up the slack. I thought you saw that Gadreel, I thought you could be trusted to carry us into a new age!"

"And I thought you were not the kind to murder your own!" Gadreel yelled back, angel blade shaking in his hand as he took another step forward, voice dripping with anguish. "I watched you kill Nathanael, Muriel, Leo. Without preamble, without allowing them to explain before you shoved your blade into their chests. And then you blame these murders on Castiel and you expect me to continue to follow you? I cannot understand..."

"Exactly," Metatron bellowed, "You _cannot_ understand. This is beyond your level of comprehension, and I am beyond waiting for you to catch up."

Gadreel bristled and took another step so that he was directly in front of Metatron, blade raised, the desk the only thing separating them. Metatron stared at the blade, and then back at Gadreel, his mouth curling upwards slightly. And then he snapped his fingers.

"Gadreel..." Castiel warned, lunging toward the two angels. But at that moment, three of Metatron's followers charged into the room, two of them grabbing Cas from behind and pulling him backwards. Cas watched in horror as the third attacked Gadreel, but Gadreel moved first, turning to slash his blade across the angel's stomach in one fluid motion. He whirled back to face Metatron, blade still raised, but Metatron now held his own blade.

And he drove it straight through Gadreel's heart.

"No!" Cas screamed, fighting wildly against the angels that held him. But he could only watch as Gadreel's face morphed from one of anger to surprise, and finally, to pain, angel blade falling from his hand. He stared first at a once again smiling Metatron, then down at the blade in his chest, disbelieving, as a white light began to consume him. And then Cas saw Gadreel's eyes narrow, an unidentifiable emotion warring its way to the surface. In one swift movement, the blade in his heart was gone, now being driven towards Metatron.

Metatron had no time to react before the still-bloody blade was driven into his own chest, his smile quickly contorting into a shocked grimace.

And then Gadreel was dead, his body slumping towards the floor as Cas watched, unable to shake off the angels still gripping his arms.

And Metatron was looking down at the blade in his heart. And he was smiling again.

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**Honestly I don't consider this one of my best chapters, but thanks so much for reading and keeping up with the story! See ya Thursday!**


	17. Chapter 17

**For those who are unaware: Jensen Ackles officially got a Twitter. I'm not big into that whole scene, but maybe some of you are/would like to know, so there ya go! Anyway, here's the next chapter:**

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"What the hell do you mean you're leaving?" Sam asked. He had been busy spinning his angel blade around on the table he still sat at, but now he stopped it easily with his hand and glared at Dean. "We're supposed to wait for Cas and Gadreel to get back. And if they're not back down here in the next few minutes, I'm not opposed to marching into Heaven and taking on Metatron ourselves. I mean, wasn't that your suggestion in the first place?"

The Winchesters had been waiting it out in one of the booths at _Vincent's_ for the better part of an hour now, watching the front door of the pizzeria to make sure that no more angels tried to get through, giving Metatron more of an edge than he already had. According to Gadreel, not many angels had been given the privilege of being allowed back into Heaven yet; most were still assigned to Earth, which was good news if it meant Metatron would have less reinforcements upstairs. Sam and Dean had also been watching the door to the kitchen where Gadreel and Cas had disappeared. So far, there had been no activity from either end, and Dean was becoming impatient, the First Blade thrumming against his side. Sam had insisted that he just use an angel blade in the event of more angels coming, but Dean had won that argument pretty quickly. If ignoring his brother and shoving the Blade into his jacket pocket could be counted as an argument.

It was just better with the Blade within his reach.

Except maybe it wasn't, because Dean still felt like crap. He'd escaped to the bathroom just in time to avoid having another bloody coughing fit in front of his brother, but Sam had probably still heard it all through the thin walls. That fact was solidified by the expression Sam was wearing when Dean had emerged.

"We're not doing any good here," Dean reasoned now, gesturing around the empty restaurant. The boys had immediately replaced the "Closed" sign and locked the door after the fight so that no civilians could walk in, shutting the blinds against prying eyes. But Dean could still hear the rain falling steadily outside, splattering against the windows and hitting the pavement. "So either we charge Heaven now, or I'm gonna go find something useful to do."

"Something useful? Like _what_ Dean?" Sam asked, expression edging on bemused.

Dean sighed, knowing exactly what he'd need to do if he wanted to stop hacking up a lung. Not that he'd ever admit it to Sam.

"I don't know, Sam," he said. "But anything's better than just _waiting_ here. Call me if the angels come knockin'. Otherwise, I'll catch up with you later,"

Dean began moving towards the front door, feeling for the Impala's keys in his back pocket.

"You can't just leave!" Sam yelled, getting up from the booth he'd been sitting at and crossing the small restaurant in a few long strides. He grabbed Dean's arm and whipped him around, eyes blazing. Dean stiffened, right hand reaching for the Blade tucked at his side, fingers tightening around the handle almost robotically. It was only when he met Sam's gaze that he froze, the First Blade halfway out of his pocket. Sam dropped Dean's arm and took a step back, anger suddenly replaced with something close to fear. Dean continued to stare at his brother, still not moving, eyes wide in surprise at his own violent response. It took him longer than it should've, but then the First Blade was back in his pocket, eyes still on Sam, who hadn't said a word.

"I..." Dean started, not sure what he wanted to say. He knew it was a horrible idea to leave Sam alone to face off against any angels who might show up. Every instinct he had was screaming against it. But there was something else, something stronger pulling him in the opposite direction. And he couldn't be here anymore.

So he left.

* * *

_o0O0o_

Cas couldn't seem to take his eyes off of Gadreel. The dead angel was lying with his back to Cas, head turned towards him, as if asking to be rescued with his very last breath. Cas could only stare, even though he knew there were other things that demanded his immediate attention right now. Like Metatron.

Metatron, who had withstood an angel blade to the heart; who was still standing behind his desk, now busy pulling said blade out of his chest and watching it clatter to the floor next to Gadreel.

"Pity," Metatron frowned. "He was one of my best until you corrupted him. All lined up to be second-in-command before your influence set him on the wrong path."

"The _wrong_ _path_?" Castiel cried, struggling anew against the two angels who still held him back. He soon gave up, slumping forward, his voice low and pained. "The blood of our brothers and sisters stains every inch of this newfound 'kingdom' of yours. Your throne is made from their very ashes, and yet you attempt to define yourself as our savior? Learn from my mistakes Metatron. No one should attempt to play God. This can only end badly."

"Someone has to take control, Castiel," Metatron reasoned, turning away from Cas, hand resting next to his typewriter and gazing off into the distance, as if into another world. "Someone has to give these sheep a direction to walk in, even if it means sending them over the edge of the cliff at times. And as difficult as that may be, I am the one most fit for the job."

"And why is that?" Cas pressed, but he was barely listening anymore. He'd felt the grip on him loosen after Metatron's last statement, could feel the shifting eyes of the two angels on either side of him.

"You don't like what you're hearing, do you?" Castiel whispered under his breath, even as Metatron continued to talk over him, saying something about the 'precious burden' that had been thrust upon him. Meanwhile, the two angels loosened their grip by another millimeter, casting nervous glances back and forth between themselves and Metatron, whose back was still turned.

"Do you know where he keeps the angel tablet?" Cas whispered to the angel on his left as soon as Metatron's voice picked up again. The angel swallowed hard and shook his head, but his eyes slid almost unconsciously over to the gaudy typewriter sitting on the desk. Cas turned his head to face the other angel, raising his eyebrows inquisitively. The second angel gave a tiny nod, staring straight at the typewriter and then quickly averting his eyes.

"Please," Castiel breathed, his voice so low that the two angels had to strain to hear it. "Let me end this. Let me make it right. By now you must realize that Metatron's actions are anything but just. So help me. Please. Let go."

Cas stayed obediently still as the two angels looked at each other again, both with fear and doubt and a thousand other emotions scattering their usually stoic features. And then, just as Metatron turned around to once again face Cas, the angel felt the hold on him release completely, and he immediately flew into action, diving for the angel blade Gadreel had dropped earlier. He drove it straight through Metatron's hand, the one still resting on the desk.

Metatron shrieked in surprise, but Cas was already moving again, twisting to grab hold of the typewriter. He slammed it down hard on the desk so that it broke in half, the keys flying in all directions. And there, inside the shattered remains, sat the angel tablet, glowing like a beacon.

Cas shattered that too as Metatron's screams filled the air and he convulsed, the chest wound where Gadreel's blade had sunk in earlier beginning to glow with his diminishing grace. Metatron slumped forward onto the desk, the second angel blade still protruding from his hand as he blinked in disbelief, eyes widening just in time to stay open as he died, a white light illuminating the room and all five angels within it, living and dead.

And finally, Metatron joined the dead.

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**I've got some busy weeks coming up (this one included, hence why I'm posting late and why I may not have responded to your reviews yet) so I'll do my best to have something up by Monday but it just might not happen. I apologize in advance for that. As always, feedback is appreciated!**


	18. Chapter 18

**I've surprised myself and am able to post on time, so here's the latest chapter!**

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It had been a long time since Sam had stolen a car...not that he'd forgotten how. It just hadn't been necessary since they'd wiped Dick Roman off the map. No more Leviathan running around with their faces, so no more need to find a new ride in every town they visited. And after Dick Roman, Dean had been gone. And Sam had stopped hunting.

And he didn't think Amelia would've appreciated taking a joy ride, even if Sam himself had been inclined to revisit that part of his past. Which he hadn't been. And he still wasn't, really.

Yet here was the past, knocking on his door again no matter how many times he had tried to outrun it. And that was why he found himself scrunched into the front seat of a Toyota Camry of all things, trying to adjust the seat to account for his long legs as he accelerated a little more to catch up with the sleek black car in front of him.

It had taken Sam approximately one second to decide to follow after his brother, and a few more minutes to scope out a car and start it up, making sure to leave enough time so that Dean wouldn't know he was being tailed.

Sam caught a glimpse of the Impala now, gliding along a few cars ahead of him. Despite the rain, the two-lane road had enough traffic on it for Sam to remain inconspicuous. And if Dean realized he was being followed, he gave no sign of it, not bothering to make any evasive turns or maneuvers off of the narrow stretch.

Sam merged behind a large blue van, watching as the Impala took a sharp right at the next street a good distance ahead of him.

But by the time Sam made the same turn, the Impala was nowhere to be found. Sam quickly realized that he'd actually turned onto a long gravel driveway, the crumbling remains of what had once been a house sitting at the end of it with a small shed standing off to the side, just as dismal as the house. Frowning, Sam pulled up a little more onto the grass and plucked the keys from the ignition, reaching to double check the clip in his gun. He opened the tiny door to the Camry and was about to step out when his cell phone started ringing, loud and shrill in the otherwise abandoned lot.

Sam quickly re-shut the door and picked up, mostly just to get rid of the noise, not bothering to check the caller ID before he put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Sam? Sam Winchester?"

"Who is this?" Sam asked, instantly on alert. His first thought was Amelia, because he'd just been thinking about her, but the inflection was all wrong. Where Amelia's voice had been soft and warm, this woman's was rough and cracked, like someone just getting over a cold. In the back of his mind, Sam knew he needed to be looking for Dean. But the call was intriguing, if not a little unsettling. Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a call from someone who wasn't his brother.

"Name's Sherry Adler," the voice said, and Sam almost laughed. The name sounded like something out of a fifties musical, didn't match the tone of her voice at all. "Worked a case with John Winchester years back. Shapeshifter in Toledo, I think. Anyway, could really use your help down here. Dunbar, Nebraska. You anywhere close?"

"Wait, what?" Sam asked. He didn't mean to sound slow, but he was still trying to make sense of the call. As far as Sam knew, Dad had never mentioned a 'Sherry Adler' before, and he'd flipped through his father's journal enough to be pretty sure.

"Your daddy drop you on your head when you were little or somethin'?" Sherry griped. "Goddamn spirit just shattered my hip and I could use some assistance down here. Believe me, if I knew anyone else left alive..."

"Look," Sam cut in, quickly catching up after his initial confusion. "I'm really sorry, but I'm dealing with some pretty heavy crap on my end right now. I wish I could help, but this is actually the worst possible timing."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then Sherry's voice picked up, louder and angrier than before. "You're kiddin' me, right? There's no such thing as _good_ _timing_ for a hunter, but last time I checked, we were in the business of saving lives. Your brother still kickin'? God what was his name...Dan? Dean? Yeah that's it. Put Dean on the phone," she demanded.

"Dean's...he's not here right now," Sam spat back heatedly, suddenly needing to end this conversation _right_ _now_. Because Dean _wasn't_ there next to him, and Sam had no idea where the hell his brother was or what he was doing.

"Okay look," he said, interrupting whatever Sherry had been about to say. "Send me your location and any information you have on this spirit, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I promise. Just please...I'll talk to you later." Sam hung up before Sherry could respond, triple-checking his gun and finally opening the car door again. The rain was still falling, making Sam's hair stick sloppily to the sides of his face as he made his way towards the ramshackle house. It was coming down slower now, a light drizzle, but it still felt cold against his skin.

Sam reached the door to the house, stepping carefully over the crumbling porch, his gun now raised. A quick look inside told him the place was completely abandoned, save for a couch with enough dust to swim in and a few other pieces of old furniture, all in various stages of decay. Sam stepped to the other side of the porch just to make sure, the wood creaking under his weight. It was empty.

The creepy shed was the next destination on his list, so Sam hopped off the porch and headed towards it, pausing only to examine a rusted out shovel that was sticking out of the ground before he reached the entrance. He leaned his head quietly against the door of the shed, even as his eyes continued to scan his surroundings. Sam couldn't hear much, just a faint scratching noise that could just as easily be rats.

But Sam knew Dean was here. There was nowhere else he could've disappeared to so quickly. The only question was if he was alone. And who might be with him.

Sam didn't give himself too much time to think about it.

Instead, he took two steps back, raised his gun, and kicked down the door.

* * *

**So I actually just lost the last 6 or 7 chapters of this story the other day, which means everything from here on out has had to be rewritten and reworked a little bit. It was pretty upsetting, (I feel like I'm forgetting parts of it) but I've re-finished most of it by now, so I should be able to keep consistently posting until the end. Again, thank you guys so much for following along/reviewing. And happy Labor Day! **


	19. Chapter 19

**Nothing to add, so here's the new chapter:**

* * *

**20 MINUTES EARLIER **

"This one of Abaddon's then?" Dean asked, nodding towards the demon tied to a chair in the corner of the crumbling shed they stood in, its mouth gagged and eyes wide with fear.

"You really think I'd throw one of my own to the dogs?" was Crowley's impatient reply. He was pacing the small expanse of the shed, looking more annoyed than usual. "For some godforsaken reason I've been losing loyalists faster than I can count," he scoffed. "Apparently brawn is in at the moment. Anyway, last thing I want is encourage distrust. Offering up one of my own for these little experiments of yours probably wouldn't be my smartest move. 'Smart' is what I have, so yes, this is one of Abaddon's. You gonna get on with it then? I imagine we haven't got all day."

Dean stiffened, glancing back and forth between Crowley and the demon in the chair. He brought a hand to his mouth just in time to smother yet another short coughing fit. They were coming more frequently now, and Dean pulled his hand back to reveal a vibrant splash of red trickling between his fingers. Crowley raised an eyebrow, but Dean ignored him, quickly wiping the blood away with a roll of his eyes.

"Come on mate," Crowley said, softer this time. "You called _me_, remember? It's obvious that you need a little...escape, shall we say? And that's not as bad of a thing as you seem to think it is."

Dean let out a short laugh, flat and bitter. "I'm pretty sure our definitions of 'bad' are a little different," he said. "And I'd actually prefer it if you weren't here for this. You know seeing as I have to actually be unconscious, and I'm not completely convinced you won't slit my throat the second I'm out."

"Oh come on Squirrel, you can't honestly still consider us enemies? What more do I have to do?" Crowley asked, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. "Would you like a parade of demons lined up, ready to lend their brains to the Dean Winchester foundation?"

"Look," Dean growled, deliberately patting his jacket pocket where the First Blade rested. "I appreciate your...generosity here, okay? But just because you need me to kill Abaddon doesn't mean I trust you. I'm not stupid enough to..."

"Fine. Fine," Crowley said before Dean could finish. "I'll flutter my way out of here. But I'm coming back when you're done. We've got some things to discuss, you and I."

"Yeah, like what?" Dean spit, expression hardening.

"Like what I can offer you _after_ Abaddon is dead. I know the plan is to take out little old me next, but think about what you're missing out on. I'm a good resource, especially now. I can offer you all the demons you'd ever want. I'll have plenty to dispose of after that red-headed pain in my ass is done for. So just think about it."

Without waiting for a response, Crowley snapped his fingers and disappeared.

* * *

**NOW**

Dean was lying on the ground.

It was the first thing Sam saw, and it was the only thing that mattered. His every instinct told him to scope out the room first, to look for threats, and to maybe notice the demon gagged and tied to a chair in the corner, still struggling with his bonds despite Sam's loud entrance. Maybe all of these things registered in the back of his mind somewhere, but all Sam saw was Dean. Because there was his big brother, once again lying too still in some old abandoned place he never should've been near in the first place. And here was Sam, always a step behind and a second too late to stop it. He ran towards Dean now, his brother's name climbing its way roughly out of his throat almost without permission as he dropped down to his knees and propped Dean's head in his lap.

There was no blood that Sam could see, no broken bones or signs of a struggle. Nothing. Sam was breathing hard, trying not to panic, his eyes doing what they should've done earlier, sweeping the room and finally resting on the trapped demon he hadn't bother to pay attention to earlier.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?" Sam screamed, even as he realized the demon would have no way of responding through the gag. But he didn't care. "I SAID, WHAT DID YOU..."

But at that moment, Dean lurched forward into a sitting position, gasping as his entire upper body arched up off the floor, hands reaching for something that wasn't there. He sighed deeply, eyelids fluttering, and started to lower his head back towards the floor. But he met a soft resistance sooner than expected, and he was on his feet in an instant, flipping away from the unanticipated contact, the First Blade making its way instinctively from his pocket and into his hand, as if it were an extension of the limb.

Sam remained frozen on the floor on his knees, staring up at his brother. He watched as Dean registered who was sitting in front of him, saw Dean lower the Blade only slightly, not yet putting it away. His free hand came up to scratch absently at the back of his head, expression rigid and uncertain at the same time.

"Sam?" Dean said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"_Me_? Dean what the hell are _you_ doing here? What is all this?" Sam yelled as he got to his feet, hands gesturing wildly around the room. Now that Dean was walking and talking again, the anger seeped easily back into his tone, replacing the debilitating fear that had gripped him moments earlier. And if Sam was being honest with himself (which he seldom was nowadays), the pieces were already starting to slide together in his head. The demon tied to the chair, now watching them with unsettling interest, was a pretty big clue.

"It's none of your business Sam," Dean shot back, eyes narrowed. "Just go. Get back to Cas and Gadreel. If they're not dead already. You're supposed to be waiting for them."

"AND SO ARE YOU!" Sam yelled. "So I'll ask again. What the hell are you doing here? I mean is this...is this what I think it is Dean? Are you jumping into the minds of more demons? What are you trying to find? Abaddon's location? Some way to kill Metatron? What?"

"Sam, I said it's none of your goddamned business, okay?" Dean snarled, the First Blade still gripped tightly in his hand, turning his knuckles white. "Just know that whatever needed to happen here, it happened. It's all good."

"All good?" Sam cried incredulously. "All good, are you serious?"

"Look, can we not do this now?" Dean barked, waving the Blade around in the air between them. "We gotta get back to Cas."

Before Sam could respond, Dean had stalked out of the shed, the flimsy door making a more resounding bang than Sam would've thought possible. Sam hesitated for only a second before leaving the shed and running after Dean. If he had been paying attention to anything else, he might've noticed the dark shape that stepped out of the shadows of the shed just as he'd left it. If he had been as focused as he usually was, he might've caught a glimpse of the King of Hell out of the corner of his eye. As it was, Sam remained oblivious.

He caught up with Dean as he was making his way around the back of the shed towards the Impala. She was parked at just the right angle to have been hidden from view from the driveway, which explained why Sam hadn't seen her before. Sam reached Dean just as he was starting to open the door. He slammed it closed before Dean could get in, shoving his big brother hard. Sam had expected the force to be enough to knock Dean to the ground, especially since he hadn't been prepared for it, but Dean only stumbled back a few steps before righting himself and turning to glare at Sam.

"Move."

"No. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on here," Sam insisted, positioning himself between Dean and the door to the Impala. "We're not leaving until you do. So either you tell me, or you have to go through me."

Dean chuckled and straightened, rolling his shoulders back. "Oh come on Sammy, we both know how that would end. And I really don't wanna have to add another broken nose to your impressive repertoire."

"No Dean, I mean you'll have to go _through_ me," Sam reiterated, planting his feet.

Dean tried for another stunted laugh, but Sam's expression didn't change, though his eyes flickered uncertainly towards the Blade that protruded from his brother's jacket pocket. Dean stopped smirking when he caught Sam's gaze.

He turned his back on his little brother, running a hand down his face.

"What were you looking for in that demon's head Dean?" Sam asked, his voice a little softer. "I mean why wouldn't you just ask for my help? What did you...?" Sam stopped. The last piece of the puzzle floated out from his memories. The first time they'd used Demon Sight. One of the last things the demon had said.

"Unless you're...addicted to it?" It came out as a pained whisper, Sam's fear solidified by the way Dean flinched, the muscles in his back tensing. "Oh God, Dean..."

"Believe me Sam, God has nothing to do with this," Dean snorted grimly, shaking his head. He still wouldn't look at Sam, instead raising his eyes to glance at the sky. After a few more moments of silence, Sam did the same. The rain had finally stopped, leaving an ugly overcast in its wake. After a storm like that, Sam figured there had to be a rainbow around somewhere, but all he could see was more gray.

"I don't...I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help you," Sam said after a while.

Dean finally turned back around, a bitter smile pulling almost grotesquely at his worn features. "It's not your responsibility Sam, even if I wanted your help. And I don't. So just leave it the fuck alone."

Sam blanched, freezing as Dean took two steps back towards his brother. He nudged Sam almost too gently away from the car door, that same unfamiliar smile still in place as he slid into the driver's seat. Sam seemed to snap out of his momentary shock a second later, trying to grab for his sleeve, but Dean dodged the attempt easily, slamming the door shut and peeling the Impala away in one smooth motion.

Sam turned to watch the car disappear around the turn at the end of the long driveway, his hand still outstretched.

Still reaching for his brother.

* * *

**Yep things are getting crazy. See you guys on Monday, and as always, I appreciating you reading and reviewing!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Hope everyone had a great weekend and I hope you enjoy the latest chapter!**

* * *

Sam hadn't expected to find his brother back at the pizzeria, but there Dean was. He and Cas were sitting in the same booth that Sam and Dean had been in earlier, engrossed in quiet conversation. Cas looked completely drained, slumped back against the soft cushioning of the seat, eyes half closed. There were flecks of blood staining the collar of his shirt and scattered across the sleeves of his coat, though it didn't appear to be his.

The small bell on the door to the pizzeria clanged loudly as Sam opened it and rushed towards the booth, ignoring his brother for the moment.

"Cas! Cas, you okay?" he asked, kneeling beside the angel. Cas nodded slowly.

"Metatron is dead," he said, though his pained expression didn't match the relief those words should have brought. Sam found out why a second later. "So is Gadreel."

"Cas I'm sorry," Sam said, resting a hand on the angel's shoulder. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"I owe him my life," Cas continued as if Sam hadn't spoken. Sam dropped his hand. "Heaven owes him its restoration. He deserved more..."

"Cas," Dean cut in. "Come on man, you know his goal was always redemption. And now he has it. You helped give it to him. And with Metatron gone, things in Heaven can finally go back to normal."

Cas sighed, straightening up a little in the booth so that his hands rested on the table, clasped together in front of him as he looked at Dean.

"I don't remember what 'normal' even is anymore," he said. "And honestly, I'm not sure that's what Heaven needs. The angels need a new order, a better way."

"So...are you leaving Cas?" Sam asked. "Are you going back to lead them?"

"It seems that's what's expected of me," Cas admitted, looking down at his hands. "But I am not a leader, Sam. I can't be what they need me to be. I've tried that before, and I failed immensely."

"Maybe you can do it better this time," Dean said. "You don't have to make the same mistakes Cas. And it's not like I want you to leave, but if you can really do some good up there, I mean if you can really change things...then maybe it's for the best you know? At least for a little while."

Cas nodded, though he looked unconvinced, his eyes still downcast.

Dean sighed, breaking the short silence that followed. He reached across the booth to pat Cas on the shoulder, and then got to his feet, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sam demanded, getting to his feet and following after Dean.

"I uh...I'm headin' out Sam."

"And what the hell does that mean?" Sam demanded, his anger once again bubbling up to the surface. It seemed that lately, whenever he and Dean talked, anger was the default setting for both of them. "You're just gonna take off? Don't want to have to talk about how far off the rails you are, don't want to deal with any of it, so you're just gonna book it? I thought that was _my_ gig Dean."

Dean stopped on his way to the door, his fingers just barely ghosting over the handle. He turned around to face Sam, his jaw working.

"Makes sense I'd get a free pass this time then, huh?" he shot back. "And anyway, that's not what this is even about."

"Yeah?" Sam challenged. "Then what's it about?"

But Dean just shook his head, his eyes locking on his little brother. Sam recoiled from the pain he saw there, the utter desperation that glanced off of Dean's features before he found control again, expression hardening into the mask he'd learned to wear so well by now. He moved for the door again.

"Dean. Stop." Cas finally spoke up, hauling his exhausted body out from the booth and making his way over to Dean. Dean hesitated long enough for Cas to reach him, and the angel took full advantage, grabbing the hunter by the collar of his jacket and hauling him back towards the booth. Caught off guard, and not wanting to hurt the angel (who looked like he could be taken out by nothing more than a sneeze at the moment), Dean allowed himself to be led back to the table, only protesting when Cas shoved him unceremoniously back into the booth.

"Jesus Cas, watch it," he griped, brushing out the sleeves of his jacket and staring sharply up at the angel.

Cas ignored him, instead collapsing back into his own seat at the booth, eyes on Dean.

"I don't know what's going on here," Cas said, gesturing between the brothers, "but you two had better fix it. Dean, you just got done telling me not to make the same mistakes twice, yet here you are, about to do exactly that. It seems that whenever you two fight, the world is thrown into yet another cataclysmic disaster. And I don't think we can afford any more of those, do you?"

Dean smirked at the angel, shaking his head bitterly.

"You don't get it Cas..."

"Oh really?" Cas interrupted, straightening up a little in his seat. "Then fill me in."

Sam watched the whole exchange with a mixture of awe and amusement. The amount of Winchester snark stuffed into Cas's entire demeanor was almost too much to handle, and if it had been any other day, any other set of circumstances, Sam probably would've laughed. As it was, he watched Dean, waiting to see what his brother would say.

Dean glared accusingly at Cas, but after a while he sighed in resignation, his eyes instead making their way up to the ceiling, counting out the tiles.

"Cas I just...I have to find Abaddon. I have to end this," Dean ground out. "And I'm tired of justifying myself to you. To him." Dean jerked his head in Sam's direction. "I don't need a lecture and I don't need help. I can do this on my own, and the sooner it gets done, the better it is for all of us. So I figure it's about time I split."

Sam closed his eyes. He'd been hoping Dean would say something else. Anything else really. Maybe something about the fact that he was losing control of himself, that he could no longer distinguish right from wrong. That he was carrying around an ancient weapon like it was fucking Excalibur or something. But instead, here was yet another excuse, another justification that distracted from the real issue.

"I understand all that Dean," Cas said. "But you're starting to sound like me."

"And what does _that_ mean?" Dean snapped, rolling his eyes.

"Wasn't it me who swore I was in control when I was trying to defeat Raphael? That I could handle swallowing all the souls in Purgatory without consequence?" Cas asked, head cocked to the side as he regarded the hunter sitting across from him. "Wasn't it me who truly believed I was doing the right thing, when in reality, I all but ended the world?"

Dean was shaking his head before Cas had even finished speaking, getting to his feet once more, his next words coming low and rough.

"This is different."

"No Dean. It isn't. And you know that," Cas said. Dean just stared at him, jaw locked in frustration, fists clenched at his sides.

"Dean?" Sam spoke up, taking a step toward his brother. "Can we just...go back to the bunker for now? Sort some stuff out? Abaddon's next on our list now, priority number one, and I promise you we'll find her. But we just need some time to regroup first. Okay?"

Dean huffed out a breath and looked at Sam, running a hand over his mouth.

"Fine," he said finally. "We go back to the bunker for now. But time? Time is what we don't have. So we find Abaddon, and you don't get to argue about how the job gets done. You let me handle it."

"Okay. Okay Dean," Sam lied, shrugging his shoulders. "Let's just go."

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**Reviews are welcome, thanks for reading!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Okay so this one's on the shorter side and there isn't too much action- kind of a set-up chapter more than anything, so apologies for that, but hopefully it's still enjoyable! (I know, I really oversold it). **

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_Terrance O'Malley  
__Willow Creek Cemeter__  
Dunbar, Nebraska  
__ Another one dead. Get here now._

"Shit," Sam muttered, staring at the text on his screen as he walked into the kitchen. He opened the door to the fridge and perused its contents before settling on a bottle of water and a leftover chicken sandwich and letting the door swing shut behind him. With everything that had happened in the last few hours, Sam had completely forgotten about his earlier conversation with Sherry Adler.

"What?"

Sam started in surprise, unaware that Dean had been anywhere in the same vicinity. He had disappeared into his room the moment they'd arrived back at the bunker, much to Sam's despair. Sam had been intent on having the chance for some kind of intervention, plus he'd been hoping to have some backup in the form of one Castiel, but the angel had also retired almost immediately to his old room and was unconscious within seconds. On top of everything else, Cas's behavior was, quite frankly, terrifying. Sam knew the angel hadn't been the same since he'd stolen another angel's grace, but the signs were becoming more and more apparent. All Sam knew was that Cas was freaking him out. And so was Dean, but by this point that was almost nothing new.

It was funny how the roles between them kept reversing and re-reversing. Not long ago it had been Sam who had been unwilling to talk, not willing to accept the things his brother had done to keep him alive. Not willing to forgive. And now it was Dean who was shutting Sam out. Only maybe he wasn't. Not completely anyway, because here Dean was, moving slowly into the kitchen to stand beside his brother. Like Sam, he opened the fridge and took a quick glance inside. But he slammed it shut again a second later, empty-handed. Sam took a bite of his cold sandwich. They were never as good by the third day in the fridge, but Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd actually had time for a meal that involved an actual source of protein, so he ate greedily.

"What?" Dean asked again, staring at Sam expectantly.

"Uh it's...a case," Sam replied, mouth full as he handed his phone to Dean. Dean scanned the text and handed the phone back.

"And?"

"And this lady named Sherry Adler says she knew Dad. Needs our help."

"_Sherry_? Seriously?"

"Yes, Dean. She got hurt. Can't finish the hunt on her own."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged. "Go finish it."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere without you. We're both going."

"You do realize how stupid that is, right?" Dean growled, immediately on edge. His moods shifted so rapidly nowadays that after a while, Sam had completely given up trying to predict when the newest onslaught would occur. Dean's voice rose as he spoke, his words cutting sharply across the space between them. "I mean we literally _just_ decided that Abaddon is priority number one, and now you wanna go galavanting off to Nebraska to hook up with Sherry and the Four Seasons? You really want to, you go right ahead, but I'm gonna go kill me a Knight of Hell."

Once upon a time, Sam might've chuckled at the Frankie Valli reference, but now he just shook his head. "No Dean, you're not. At least, not yet. Look, I know you're all 'one track mind' right now, but people are dying, and for the first time in what feels like forever, we can actually do something about it," he argued. "This is what we _do_. And I don't fucking trust you at all right now, so you're coming with me, and we're doing this together."

"Sammy..." Dean's voice broke over the nickname all wrong.

"No, see, this isn't an argument," Sam said, trying to ignore the lump that formed in the back of his throat. "You wanna take down Abaddon your way? Great. But someone needs our help _now_. We've already got the name of the spirit, _and_ the graveyard where he's buried. Simplest salt and burn there is. So we go to Nebraska, and we go after Abaddon _after_."

Dean sighed, long and deep, rolling his head back to look at the ceiling. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days, always looking anywhere but at his little brother. "Alright here's my compromise," he said after a while. "We do this case, and then we're done."

"And what the hell does that mean?" Sam asked.

"It means we go to Dunbar and we barbecue this son of a bitch for old times sake, and then I'm gone," Dean said, raising a hand before Sam could interrupt. "No, listen Sam. I'm...this Mark...It's..." he paused, started again. "Abaddon is all I can think about. I can't stop any of this until I find her. And we can't keep doing this to each other."

"Doing _what_? Dean, come on. We've been in situations like this before," Sam insisted, stepping toward his brother. Dean skirted back, shaking his head.

"No Sam. You said it yourself. God, you _keep_ saying it. We're not brothers anymore. We're just a mess. A huge fucking mess."

"We've cleaned up messes before..."

"Not like this Sam," Dean pressed. "Not like this. Look, we'll do this salt and burn, okay? We'll go to Nebraska and then if you want, we can talk about it again after, but I'm telling you right now, there's nothing more to be decided. I'm not changing my mind."

"Dean..." Sam pleaded, just as he felt another text from his phone. He paused to check the screen:

_You better be on your fucking way. _

"Fine," Sam finally said, resigned. "But don't bring the Blade." He spoked distractedly, simultaneously typing out a quick response to let Sherry know they'd be there. "You won't need it for this, and honestly I'd rather you didn't skewer me with the damn thing. You've come close enough."

"Sam, I wouldn't..." Dean started, but Sam looked up from his phone and caught Dean's eye, expression hard and disbelieving. "Yeah. I won't bring it," Dean said instead, his eyes bouncing down to the floor this time.

"Alright," Sam nodded. "Pack your stuff."

* * *

**If you don't know the song "Sherry" by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, I'd suggest looking it up because it's kind of fabulous and also kind of really famous and it'll get stuck in your head ALL DAY after you watch Jersey Boys. Not that I know from personal experience or anything. **

**On another note, I have absolutely no idea if there is actually a Willow Creek cemetery in Dunbar. If there is, it's pure coincidence. Anyway, see ya Monday! **


	22. Chapter 22

Willow Creek Cemetery was absolutely enormous, with gravestones stretching out in every direction as far as the eye could see. Apparently it had also been raining in Nebraska, because a thick layer of fog now covered the ground, lending itself to the already eerie scene and making it difficult to see clearly. The Winchesters had arrived in Dunbar at nightfall and had already been searching for Terrance O'Malley's grave for over twenty minutes with no success. Sam was growing impatient, his flashlight swinging back and forth between the gravestones as he walked, reading each name carefully and thinking maybe Sherry could've given a little more specific directions. He'd tried calling when they had arrived, but she hadn't answered.

Dean was strolling along a few paces behind, his own flashlight illuminating the graves Sam had already checked, as if it were _Sam_ who needed to prove himself trustworthy right now. The whole thing was setting Sam's teeth on edge, and it didn't help that Dean was probably right about showing up here in the first place. With everything else going on, an angry spirit in Nebraska didn't even hit the 'zero' on the scale of what needed doing. But Sam was still Sam, and he still needed to save those who could be saved.

Dean Winchester was at the top of that list, whether he wanted to be or not.

The elder hunter hadn't said a word on the drive over, choosing to instead stare stoically out the window of the passenger seat while Sam tried every strategy he could think of to get his big brother to open his mouth. Dean's overdramatic 'goodbye forever' speech wasn't even what Sam was most worried about. They needed to talk out the whole Demon Sight thing. According to Sam, _that_ was truly priority number one. But despite Sam's pleas (and screams and yells and threats), no progress had been made. Sam had even contemplated swerving the Impala off the road just to elicit some kind of response from Dean, but Sherry's fifth text message within the hour had deterred him from it. She seemed desperate, and from what little information Sam had gathered about her demeanor in their brief conversations, it didn't seem she was usually the desperate type. Still, it wasn't too comforting that she wasn't picking up the phone _now_.

But they'd driven on, and now here they were, hunting down a ghost like it was the good old days.

Except it didn't feel like the good old days. Not even a little bit.

Sam let out an aggravated groan as he stumbled yet again over the uneven terrain. Despite its impressive size, the graveyard itself was poorly kept, with tall grass sprouting out in every direction and a fair amount of divots and mounds of dirt spread out along the grounds. By this point, Dean normally would've made some comment about Sam's motor skills, but as it was, he remained quiet

His stubborn silence was broken a second later, however, and Sam wished it hadn't been. His brother's shrill cry cut across the misty expanse of the graveyard, and Sam turned just in time to see Dean being flung backward, his head colliding with one of the gravestones as he crumpled to the ground. It was the only warning he was given before Sam himself was thrown in the opposite direction, his leg landing awkwardly beneath him as he hit the ground. His flashlight flew from his hand, rolling towards where Dean was lying, about fifty feet away. The beam partially illuminated his brother's slack features, and Sam could see a small pool of red forming on the ground beside his head.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, making a move to get up. He immediately collapsed again, curling in on himself as his leg screamed its agony, bones grinding against one another. If it wasn't broken, it sure felt like it. And Sam had enough experience with broken bones to be pretty sure that it was. A few more experimental maneuvers proved him right, and he bit down on the wail of agony that crawled its way towards his throat with each movement.

"Sam?"

Sam let out a relieved breath when he heard Dean's instinctive groan a few seconds later. He watched as Dean stirred slowly back to consciousness, sooner than Sam would've thought possible with the hit he'd just taken. After a second, Dean pushed himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the tall grave marker, using it for support as he tried to get to his feet. Finally, he was standing again, but he had only taken two steps in Sam's direction before being thrown back against the gravestone again, shoulder blades pressing painfully into one of the jagged ridges.

Sam was about to yell his brother's name again, but just then he felt a tightening in his chest and limbs, easily recognizing the familiar sensation of being held down by a demon.

His fears were confirmed a moment later when a low, familiar chuckle filtered out through the fog, followed closely by a dark figure that sauntered out into the space between Sam and Dean, bright red hair standing out against her black leather jacket.

Abaddon laughed again, a triumphant smile curling her blood red lips.

* * *

"Sherry Adler, I presume?" Dean sneered, temporarily giving in to Abaddon's hold on him and letting his head fall back against the gravestone.

"I was originally gonna go with 'Cherry,' but I figured that one might be too obvious, what with the hair and all," Abaddon smirked. "But my guess is it wouldn't've mattered either way. You Winchesters aren't very astute when it comes to...well...anything."

"Right. That's why you've been hiding out, is it?" Dean said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because we're just so damn incompetent?"

Abaddon's smile morphed into a condescending scowl as she took another step towards Dean, her eyes flickering to black. "Hiding? Hardly. I've been strategizing. Forming my army; harboring human souls; eliminating Crowley loyalists," she said, ticking off each item on her fingers. "I'm sure you've heard about most of it by now. So really, I've just been busy. But I had the weekend off, so..."

Dean rolled his eyes, firing off another sharp remark. Sam didn't pay attention to what it was, too busy reaching for his phone. Whether on purpose or not, Dean's commentary had kept Abaddon completely focused on him, allowing Sam a little leeway when it came to moving. A big part of Sam hoped that Dean knew exactly what he was doing. Because that would be just like the old Dean, occupying Abaddon in an attempt to keep the attention away from his little brother.

Not willing to speculate too much on it now, Sam shifted carefully against his broken leg, pulling his phone from the front pocket of his jeans. No matter how exhausted the angel might be, Cas's presence would be a big help right now. They'd left him sleeping at the bunker, writing out a note telling him where they'd be. Dean hadn't been too happy when Sam had informed him that Cas seemed to be losing his mojo again, had stared disapprovingly at Sam as if it were _his_ fault.

And looking down at his shattered phone, pieces of the screen falling onto the damp ground, Sam couldn't help but think that maybe this _was_ all his fault. Because it had been Sam's idea to come to Nebraska in the first place. It had been Sam who had fallen for Abaddon's ruse, not bothering to research the so-called 'case' on his own, instead going off of 'Sherry's' intel, when it was quickly becoming apparent that it had really been Abaddon on the phone. And now, because of him, they were royally screwed.

"Don't know who you'd call anyway."

Sam felt the phone fly from his hands, watching as it landed on the ground at Abaddon's feet. Her attention was focused on him now, and she smiled as she crushed the already useless phone beneath the heel of her boot. She kept smiling as a quick flick of her wrist sent Sam flying again, his back smacking against a gravestone the same way Dean's had. This time he couldn't stop the scream that tore its way from his throat as he landed once more on his broken leg, the bones grinding together painfully.

"Sam?!" Dean called, once again struggling against Abaddon's hold on him, still unable to move.

Sam gasped out a few more pained breaths, shifting until most of the weight was off of his left leg.

"M'okay Dean," he panted. "M'okay."

Abaddon laughed again, shaking her head in amusement.

"No Sam," she said. "You're really, really not."

* * *

**Yes, I know some of you didn't trust Sherry from the start, and you probably would've fared far better than our boys are at this point. Thanks so much for reading; next update will be on Thursday!**


	23. Chapter 23

**A bit of a sparse update today, but Monday's will be longer!**

* * *

"So before I kill you, I just have to know one thing," Abaddon said, her gaze shifting back and forth between the Winchesters. She was completely at ease, barely seeming to use any effort at all to keep the two men pinned down as she strode between them, swinging her arms at her sides.

"Yes, everything really _is_ bigger in Texas," Dean quipped, but Sam could hear the tension in his voice as he continued to shift against the hard stone at his back. Sam couldn't see the back of his brother's head, but he'd seen the blood on the ground earlier and he imagined there was already an enormous lump forming there. It was a miracle Dean wasn't showing signs of a severe concussion. Really, it was a miracle Dean wasn't still unconscious, at the very least.

"Hilarious," Abaddon snorted. "But that's not quite what I'm asking."

She took one more long look at Sam, quirking an eyebrow at him before turning her back on him and coming to stand directly in front of Dean.

"You know I've heard rumors," she continued. "Rumors about what you Winchesters were willing to do to bring me down. So I'm curious..." she cocked her head to the side, regarding Dean. He stared back at her, jaw locked, as she reached for his right arm, pulling up roughly on the sleeve of his jacket. Dean grunted and tried to pull away, but couldn't. He gave up after a moment, his muscles tensing, and he watched Abaddon's face as the Mark of Cain came into view, her eyes widening slightly before she chuckled again, patting his arm and pushing his jacket down to cover it up again.

"Huh. Guess I'll have to add another stop to that busy schedule of mine," she said, still not moving away from Dean. Instead she began adjusting his collar as she spoke. Even from where he was lying on the ground, back pressed against a gravestone, Sam could see Dean trembling. Not just shivering away from her touch, but all out _trembling_, as if he had been submerged in ice water. Abaddon seemed to notice it too, her eyes sweeping knowingly over him, her next words laden with distain.

"I've also been hearing speculation of your little _extracurriculars, _Dean. And based on what I've so far gathered, I'd say that one's true too," she spit. "So here's what we'll do: You're both going to suffer extensively. It'll probably take a while, but I think I can afford myself the luxury in this case. And then when I'm finished with _you_, I'll pay a visit to my old friend, Cain."

Abaddon smiled ruefully, finally letting go of Dean's jacket but still not moving away from him.

"Tell me," she asked, "Is he still set on his pathetic quest for candy canes and world peace?"

"Actually, he's traded in the candy canes for honeybees and corn..."

Abaddon, Sam and Dean all jerked at the voice that didn't belong to any of them, though Sam and Dean's movements were limited by the grip Abaddon still had on them.

"Crowley..." Abaddon tried to hide her surprise, but the name slid uncertainly across her tongue and she straightened, stepping away from Dean and towards the King of Hell.

Crowley strode forward from the shadows, the fog at his feet seeming to curl away from him instinctively as he walked. He paused just a few feet away from Sam, smiling down at him out of the corner of his eye. As Sam watched, Crowley winked.

"Yes I know, I'm interrupting," the demon sighed, seeming genuinely upset by that fact. "I'm just not comfortable with the power distribution here, and I'd like to even out the odds a bit. I mean you've caught these boys completely off guard here. Seems a bit low, even for you, darling."

Abaddon smirked, turning her back on Dean and facing off against the new arrival. "And you think _your_ presence evens the odds?" she grinned. "How very vainglorious of you. I'd like to see that little theory of yours put to the test."

Crowley slapped a hand over his chest, as though wounded. "That hurts," he pouted, letting out a long sigh. "You know, you're really not making this at all difficult for me."

"Making _what_ difficult?" Abaddon asked, glowering disdainfully at the demon in front of her.

"This whole hero gig," Crowley shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. He began pacing as he spoke, but Sam had stopped paying attention to him. Instead, his eyes were now on Dean. Dean, whose entire body was still shaking, his right hand working furiously against Abaddon's invisible restraint, migrating ever so slowly towards his lower back. Squinting through the fog, Sam watched in what shouldn't have been disbelief as Dean's jacket shifted just enough to reveal the handle of the First Blade, shoved covertly into the waistband of his jeans. A thousand different thoughts and emotions rushed through Sam's head in that moment. The first was recognition of Crowley's plan in keeping Abaddon occupied. The second was relief that Dean hadn't listened to him, had brought the Blade with him yet again. And the third: absolute terror. _Because Dean had brought the First Blade along with him. Again. _

"You really do love the sound of your own voice, don't you?" Crowley continued talking, and Sam immediately shifted focus back to him, not wanting Abaddon to follow his gaze. "That's the downfall of all you conceited little brutes. You're all the same. Always the cliche victory speech. I mean you just can't resist the urge to make sure everyone knows you've won...before you've even actually _won_. If I were you, I'd change tactics, because really, it's just a shame. A crying shame, and a huge waste of potential."

"Seriously?" Abaddon droned, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're trying to give me pointers on how I run things? Last time I checked, your followers had reached an all time low."

"Oh please." Crowley rolled his eyes mockingly. "I don't even _have_ a Twitter account. I find the whole affair to be quite stodgy, really."

Sam let out an unintentional snort, to which Abaddon narrowed her eyes.

"A _what_?" she asked, eyebrows furrowed, glancing back and forth between Sam and Crowley.

"Doesn't matter darling," Crowley grinned, his eyes flickering momentarily to glance directly over Abaddon's shoulder. "You won't be living long enough to sign up."

Catching Crowley's pointed gaze, Abaddon frowned and immediately spun around, her red hair whipping past her shoulders as she turned.

Dean Winchester stood less than a foot away from her, the First Blade quivering menacingly in his hand.

He smiled.

* * *

**We're pretty much nearing the end of this story here folks, so thanks so much for sticking around so far. See you next week!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Hope everyone's Monday is going swimmingly! Here's the newest chapter: **

* * *

Abaddon's head lay on the ground, her mouth open in a silent scream that hadn't had the chance to leave her mouth before Dean had swung the Blade down, quick and clean. Sam watched, half relieved, half horrified, as Dean wiped almost absently at the immense amount of blood that had splattered across his face. He still held the First Blade, his fingers flexing around the handle as he stared down at the dead Knight of Hell at his feet. Blood dripped steadily from the jagged edge and onto the ground, sinking into the soil.

Nose scrunching in distaste, Dean spit onto the ground next to Abaddon's body, inspecting her as he would a dead rat. And then his lips formed the ugliest smile Sam had ever seen.

"Dean?" Sam breathed, wincing as he shifted against his bad leg. "Dean...Crowley. Kill Crowley."

Dean cocked his head to the side, shifting to look at Sam where he lay on the ground. Crowley watched the elder hunter with seemingly mild interest, as though the prospect of Dean killing him with the First Blade wasn't all that concerning, despite the fact that Dean looked absolutely _lethal_ at the moment. Instead, Crowley spun so that he was facing Sam, taking several steps back until he was standing even with Dean, about ten paces between them. The smile pulling slightly at the corners of his mouth didn't blossom into a full-on grin until Dean's next words.

"Why?" Dean asked. "Why would I do that?" He seemed genuinely caught off guard by the demand, as though he truly didn't understand.

"Dean. It's _Crowley_," Sam urged, pulling himself up so that he rested a little straighter against the tombstone behind him, wincing as he did so. "Think of all the terrible things he's done. Think of all the people he's killed. You said it yourself, after Abaddon's dead, Crowley's next."

Dean was shaking his head before Sam had even finished speaking, eyebrows scrunched in disagreement.

"No Sam, you don't understand..."

"Don't understand _what_, Dean?" Sam asked, his eyes flickering back and forth between Crowley and his brother, afraid of the answer. Crowley was still smiling, glancing between the brothers with barely concealed glee.

"He...Crowley's been helping us Sam. Helping _me_. I mean things just got so fucked up, you know?" Dean was pacing now, and Sam wondered if Dean even realized that his little brother was lying on the ground right in front of him with a broken leg. Sure didn't seem like it. The Dean Sam knew would've already taken care of Crowley with one quick blow, would've rushed to Sam's side immediately after and started checking him over, complete with a relieved smile and a bunch of corny reassurances and maybe a joke or two about dead demons and perfect older brothers who were always saving the day. But this Dean just shrugged his shoulders, staring up at the black sky, his eyes darkening. "Things got so heavy," he said sadly. "And not just the Mark, you know? It was everything. And you...you didn't want to help carry it anymore and I just..."

Dean stopped, huffing out a frustrated breath, the First Blade swinging easily in his grip as he turned his gaze back on Sam.

"I was there for him, mate," Crowley finally spoke up, stepping even closer to Dean. Sam watched in disbelief as Crowley rested a hand on his brother's shoulder, a hand that Dean didn't even attempt to shake off. He just stood there, completely indifferent, his eyes drifting across the expanse of the graveyard, as if he couldn't stay focused on whatever was happening in front of him. As if he wanted to be somewhere else.

"My offer from before stands," Crowley continued, directing his words only to Dean now. "You've helped me, and now I'm obliged to help you. Abaddon's followers are still out there, and they still pose a threat to me. Help me take them out, and I give you all the free time you need with them. It's the promise of a never-ending supply."

Dean cocked his head to the side, scrutinizing the demon next to him. "Hold on, you're saying you want me to go _with_ you?"

"Dean..?" Sam tried again, feeling heavy tears begin to pool at the corners of his eyes. He didn't let them fall, but they hovered just behind his lashes. Everything about this was wrong. It was all so wrong.

And Dean didn't seem to have a fucking clue.

He was staring at Sam again with that indecipherable look in his eyes, a sorrowful kind of acceptance that Sam had never known Dean to wear. He seemed truly torn, worrying at his bottom lip as though the choice between the two people in front of him was a difficult one.

"Dean, come on man. Snap out of it. This isn't you..."

Dean flinched away from the words, but Sam was at least somewhat relieved to have finally elicited some kind of reaction. Determined to somehow find a way back to his feet, he let out a low moan as his broken leg protested once more, finally giving up the effort and slumping back to the ground. Dean watched Sam's attempt, his grip on the Blade tightening, his left hand raising instinctively towards his little brother. But then he lowered it again and shook his head, taking a step back towards Crowley.

"I can't keep doing this Sam. I can't keep fighting what I'm becoming. I mean maybe this is just better...for everyone," he muttered, holding his brother's gaze. Sam blinked back against the tears still threatening to slip past, knowing that his next words had to be the right ones. Knowing that after every fight they'd had, after every crippling tear in the already frayed fabric of their relationship, he had to find the thing that would make Dean stay. He had to find a way to bring Dean back to him, back from the edge.

Sam shook his head, wondering how he'd missed out on the fact that while he had been busy pushing away from his brother, Dean was already being pulled in the opposite direction. Away from him, and towards _Crowley_. He wondered how they'd ever let things get this bad, how Dean had convinced himself that the only option he had left was to fall willingly into the King of Hell's manipulative grasp.

"Dean, please," Sam begged, the words falling sloppily from his lips despite his efforts to organize them. "We can fix this the same way we always have. Back in that church, you said we'd face it all together, no matter what. You said you couldn't do this without me, and that's true for me too. You can't leave me, Dean. Not after everything. You promised, remember? You promised me."

Dean hesitated again, reaching up to wipe more of Abaddon's blood from his face as he stared down at Sam, then back at Crowley. Crowley just shrugged, staring right back, ever the calm observer.

Sam watched Dean war with himself, watched the emotions flicker across his big brother's face as he rocked back and forth where he stood, fingers drumming against the handle of the First Blade.

"Sam..." Dean said, choking on his brother's name. "Sam I don't know how I'm supposed to...I mean...I can't stop this. Can't _control_ it." He rubbed at his sleeve above the place where the Mark rested, shaking his head. Sam could see it glowing slightly around the edges, even through the fabric of his jacket.

"You _can_ Dean," Sam said, latching onto the doubt he found in his brother's voice. "We can find a way to get rid of it. You're not off the deep end yet. Believe me, I know what that looks like; what that _feels_ like. And there's still time. So fight it. Fight it like you've fought everything else."

Dean scrunched his eyes closed, as if bracing for a hit. But before he could respond, Crowley coughed impatiently from his place beside the hunter. "Look, as touching as all this is, I've got someplace to be," he said. "So I suggest we get a move on, you and I. Truth is, no matter how much you may want to change things Squirrel, that Mark isn't just some tattoo you can go and get removed. I'm afraid you're stuck with it, same way you're stuck with being reliant on your new little hobby. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Just means you've got to live a little differently. And come on Dean," Crowley smirked, "it's not as if you aren't curious to see what this new life would be like. Maybe you'd even like it better than the one you've got now. Freedom, mate. That's what I'm offering."

"Dean." Sam spoke his brother's name as if it were a full sentence, as if it held its own concrete meaning. In so many ways, it did. And Sam shoved every expectation he could into that one word, said it like an order and a broken plea and the best memory he possessed. He locked eyes with Dean, wouldn't let his brother look away. _Choose me_, the look said. _Choose me like you always have, and let me save _you_ for a change. _

Dean stiffened. Sam held his breath.

* * *

**See you Thursday and as always, thank you for your comments! (Sorry for another cliffie)**


	25. Chapter 25

Everything stopped moving. Everything just _froze_. For this one immeasurable moment, Sam Winchester's world teetered in the space between disaster and salvation. And the key to it all was standing on the cold grass of this graveyard in Nebraska, not moving. _Frozen_.

And then, just like that, the world started up again.

"Leave," Dean growled, spinning suddenly towards the King of Hell. Crowley took an immediate step back, eyeing the First Blade. Sam remembered how to breathe.

"Come on now..." Crowley said, raising his hands slightly in a show of surrender.

"Go. Go now before I rip your goddamn throat out," Dean threatened, carving out a pattern in the air with the Blade.

Crowley hesitated a second longer, his calm demeanor now replaced with something close to fury as he looked back and forth between the Winchesters.

"Suit yourself," was all he said before he disappeared.

Dean only hesitated for half a second before he all but dove towards Sam, the First Blade slipping from his grasp as he knelt down beside his brother, his still-shaking hands immediately scanning Sam over for injury and stopping at the broken leg. Sam hissed at the contact, but Dean's touch was gentle as he helped prop Sam up into a better position against the gravestone at his back and immediately went to work assessing the damage.

Neither brother spoke for a long time. Dean scurried back and forth, running to find the materials he needed to make a splint, then kneeling back down next to his brother and fitting it against his leg. He wouldn't look at Sam, his eyes determinedly fixed on the task at hand. Sam watched him work, noticing the way Dean's hands still shook, the way his eyes couldn't help but skitter off every few minutes towards where the First Blade lay on the ground. He never made a move for it, but Sam could see his desire to.

"Dean.." Sam started to say the moment Dean had finished with the splint and run out of things to do. But Dean spoke over him.

"We gotta get that looked at," he said, gesturing to the makeshift splint and still not looking Sam in the eye. He spoke quickly, his tongue tripping over the words. "Hospital shouldn't be far, we just gotta get you to the car and then we'll get you a proper cast or whatever you need and then we gotta call Cas and tell him about...all this and we have to..."

He paused, dropping his head.

"I..I'm so sorry," he said, finally raising his eyes to meet Sam's. He sat back against his heels, fingers pulling at the tall grass that surrounded them, scattering the blades in the soft breeze as he rocked back and forth. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Dean it's okay," Sam replied, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing hard. He kept it there, his fingers digging deep into the folds of his brother's jacket, determined not to let Dean slip from his grasp. Not ever again. Dean sucked in a breath at the contact and stopped rocking, instead reaching to run a hand through his hair. He reached for Sam next, but didn't dare lean in for an embrace just yet, his own fingers instead snagging onto the sleeve of his little brother's jacket like it was a lifeline. He was still trembling, Sam noticed, his breaths coming fast and shallow, head bent low.

They sat like that for a moment, both reveling in the solidity of what they held onto. And then Dean was moving again, helping Sam get slowly to his feet. Even after they were both standing (Sam on one leg), Dean didn't let go.

"Can you..."

"I can walk," Sam said. "Just help me."

Dean nodded, but then his eyes drifted back to the First Blade, barely visible in the tall grass just a few feet away.

"We can't leave it," Sam said matter-of-factly. Dean nodded again, releasing his grip on Sam momentarily and bending to pick it up. He shoved it into Sam's hands without a word, his grip immediately finding Sam's arm again and taking most of his weight.

* * *

The walk back to the Impala was slow, with Sam leaning heavily against his brother. Dean's right hand never loosened, and his steps never faltered. Despite all this, Sam's leg was throbbing painfully by the time they got there, and he slid gratefully into the passenger seat, trying not to let his gasp of pain be heard. Dean heard it anyway, and he glanced sympathetically down at his brother before shutting the door and making his way around to the other side of the car. He climbed in, the door creaking behind him as he closed it. He let out a breath, keys digging into the palm of his hand, not making a move towards the ignition yet.

And then he looked at Sam.

"What the hell are we gonna do now?" he asked, his gaze landing deliberately on the First Blade clutched in Sam's hands before looking up to meet his brother's eyes.

Sam sighed, leaning his head back against the familiar leather seat. He was a mess, he realized. They both were.

Dean could still feel a thin layer of Abaddon's blood slowly drying on his face, and he reached a hand up to try to wipe a little more of it away, his hands coming away slathered in red. Luckily the shaking had subsided enough to allow Dean to drive, and he leaned forward to slide the key into the ignition, somewhat calmed by the familiar rumble of the Impala. But he could still feel the strong urge to grab the Blade from his brother's grip, to find something else, anything else, and just start slashing. The desire was somewhat muted now, seemingly controlled by an even stronger impulse to take care of the enormous man sitting next to him. An impulse that had been ingrained in him since he was four years old, had become second nature. That man let out a sharp laugh, loud and sudden, and Dean jerked up to read his little brother's expression, confused. Sam just shook his head, rolling his head to face Dean full-on.

"We do what we always do," he said simply, his eyes shining.

"We keep going."

* * *

**This was originally intended to be the last chapter, but I do realize that there are several loose ends that still need to be tied up. If you are interested, I can post more (I've been working on some epilogue-type stuff) but I'm not sure how soon it will be ready. Thank you so much for all of your kind reviews and for reading this far along- and definitely let me know if you'd like to see a little more from this story and I can try to end it a little more fully. Otherwise, until next time!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Happy Monday! Here's the first epilogue chapter.**

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Sam thought he knew what true agony was.

His year in Lucifer's pit had been one of unspeakable torment; an experience better left unspoken, buried behind ageless eyes that had already seen the horrors of death at a fragile six months old, that continued to witness it over and over as the years had passed him by and evil had spread its stain across the surface of his life. Sam could never escape pain, had known it almost from the time he was born.

So this shouldn't have been any different.

He'd survived Hell, for Christ's sake. He'd spent a year being torn apart from the inside out, Lucifer's voice continuing to echo inside his skull long after he'd been pulled out; soul tarnished almost beyond recognition.

So this should've been nothing.

But instead, Dean's withdrawal was a new kind of agony.

Dean lay cuffed to one of the many beds in the Men of Letters bunker, his wrists torn and bleeding despite Sam's best efforts to keep fresh cloths wrapped around them, to prevent the cold metal from digging too deep into his skin. Sam remembered this kind of torture well, back when Ruby's blood had infected his veins and his mind, but seeing Dean go through the same kind of ordeal was unbearable.

The decision to detox from what Dean had bitterly referred to as his new "habit" had been mutual and almost immediate. The hospital had been first though, because Sam needed a cast and some good painkillers for his leg, and they had both needed time to get their bearings, to really let everything sink in. The facts were pretty clear, once Sam had a moment to think about it between the harsh jerk of his bones being reset and the dull colorless dreams of drug-induced sleep. And the facts were this:

Metatron, and now Abaddon, were both dead. Crowley had disappeared.

Sam was a mess on the outside, his leg shattered and his body bruised. But his wounds would heal eventually, and some of the other deeper and more hidden wounds that he thought would never heal had begun to be seal and repair themselves in a fog-filled graveyard not long ago. That was all he had needed for the moment.

Dean was a different story. He was an absolute _disaster _on the inside, that much Sam could tell even through the uncertain haze of white walls and medication. He seemed to be holding it all together for now, but Sam could see the storm unfurling behind his older brother's bright green eyes.

And Cas had been called and informed on the situation. Dean had gotten a hold of him on the way to the hospital, and though the elder hunter hadn't made much sense as far as Sam could remember, Cas had seemed to get the gist of it. He'd been furious to say the least, had already sprinted a mile down the road looking for a car to steal before Dean could tell him he didn't need to meet them at the hospital, that everything was fine.

But Cas came anyway.

So those were the facts, and compared to what they'd been facing lately, it all seemed somewhat manageable when it was laid out like that in Sam's logical...morphine-induced...but still logical, brain. However, the trick was not in identifying those facts, but in finding a way to solve the problems that came with them. And there were a _lot_ of problems. So after a couple of days laid up in a hospital bed and a couple of nights with his stubborn big brother and a half-powered angel passed out in the chairs beside him, heedless of visiting hours, Sam had finally been allowed to leave.

The three of them had piled into the Impala and headed back to the bunker with barely a word between them, but for the first time in a long time, the silence had been a comfortable one. As far as Sam was concerned, everything that needed to be said had been said in that graveyard. They had chosen each other. Again. Despite everything between them, despite Crowley and Abaddon and the Mark of Cain and all the other factors involved, Dean had chosen to stay. It was most of what Sam wanted, and the rest of what he wanted had started with a conversation. It had been a much shorter one than Sam had anticipated, had begun the moment they'd set foot inside the bunker, Sam leaning on his crutches, and it was initiated by the words:

"What now?"

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, then back at Cas, whose question was not unlike the one Dean had asked only a few days ago. The answer was the same, but the specifics of how exactly they could 'keep going' still had to be answered.

And before either of the brothers could even begin to contemplate that answer, Dean had dropped to the ground and vomited a pool of blood.

* * *

It was three days later now, and the elder Winchester was unconscious, though he still twisted weakly against the restraints that held him to the bed, caught in the throes of uneasy dreams. Sam sat on his brother's bed with his broken leg stretched out in front of him, running a cold cloth over his brother's sweaty forehead for what already seemed like the hundredth time as he tried to block the last few days from his mind.

Dean had been compliant at first; had let himself be chained to the bed frame, watching passively as Cas tightened the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, licking some leftover blood from his lips. He hadn't spoken much, just kept his head low and stared at the far wall while Sam settled clumsily down beside him on the bed and rehashed the events of the past few days with Cas, who took a seat in one of the nearby armchairs. The tremors had started in earnest not long after, followed by more blood pooling out from Dean's mouth and down the front of his shirt. Still, he'd remained mostly silent throughout, biting back moans and choking on spit and blood and his little brother's name. Sam wasn't sure Dean even knew he was saying it, and after the screams finally started to crawl their way out past Dean's battered throat, Sam hoped they could both forget about all of it.

But Sam _couldn't_ forget, knew he probably never would, and at the moment, the past few sleepless nights were catching up with him, his eyelids drooping as he kept watch over his brother.

"You should get some rest." Cas's gentle request from the doorway had Sam jerking up from his half slumped position on Dean's bed. He winced down at the cast covering the majority of his leg. It was easy to forget it was there sometimes...or maybe that was just the lack of sleep.

"I'm fine, Cas," Sam replied, running a hand through his hair.

"I know. But you need to rest," Cas pressed, stepping into the room. "And you need to eat something. I can watch him for a while. It should be over soon."

Sam shook his head angrily, glancing back down at Dean's pale, unmoving face.

"And how the hell would you know that, huh? This could be different from my...from when I was addicted. We could be killing him." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Back when I was...like this...I thought Dean had left me to die in that panic room. I mean I was so messed up, so out of my head, I truly believed he was trying to kill me. And now here I am, doing the same thing to him..."

"You're saving his life, Sam," Cas reasoned, taking up his usual post on the armchair next to Dean's bed. "He will understand, just as you have come to, that you are doing this _for_ him. He will get better. And he will thank you. I know it's painful, but it's necessary. Everything else will be taken care of in due time."

Sam laughed, short and unamused. "Yeah, everything else. Like the fact that you're dying maybe? _That_ everything else?"

Cas sat back slowly in his chair, huffing out a long breath and closing his eyes.

"Yes I suppose that's on our to do list," Cas said, a sad smile curling his mouth. "But I believe our first order of business involves the Mark on your brother's arm. Dean won't survive much longer under its influence."

"Yeah, and what the hell are we supposed to do to get rid of it?" Sam asked, exasperated. "I mean we've got no plan, no...nothing. It's all just a huge goddamn mess."

"We've...cleaned up...messes before."

Sam jerked again at the sound of Dean's hoarse reply, turning his attention back to the bed to find his brother's eyes cracked open slightly, watching Sam through his lids with a lopsided smile plastered on his face.

"Dean," Sam breathed, twisting against his cast to get a better look at Dean, immediately checking his brother over. Cas simultaneously launched himself from his armchair so that he was standing beside the bed, his hands hovering uncertainly, as if not sure how he could be of help.

Dean tried to pull away from Sam's touch, the chains of his handcuffs rattling against the bed frame.

"Knock it off, Dean," Sam growled. "Let me just make sure you're okay."

"Sammy," Dean wheezed, "I'm good." He opened his eyes a little wider and blinked lazily up at his brother. Sam smiled back despite himself, reaching to unlock the restraints around Dean's wrists and ankles. When he was done, he helped his brother move slowly into a sitting position, stuffing more pillows than were necessary behind Dean's head while Cas shoved a cup of water into his hand.

Dean took a few tentative sips, conscious of the two pairs of eyes on him.

"How are you feeling Dean?" Cas asked before Sam could, reaching to take the half-drunk cup from Dean's hand.

The elder Winchester exhaled slowly, his eyes finding Sam's and holding them, though his words were for both of them.

"I told you," he said. "I'm good. I really am good."

* * *

**Final, final chapter will be posted on Thursday. I swear it's actually ending after that haha. **


	27. Chapter 27

**Yes I'm a little late with this today, but it's longer than usual so it all evens out hopefully.**

* * *

The Mark of Cain was seduction. It begged for annihilation, was only satisfied by unrestricted bloodshed and violence. But Dean couldn't afford to be unrestricted. And while separation from the First Blade (which Sam kept hidden, switching locations every few days in case Dean couldn't resist looking for it) aided in suppressing the urges, Dean found it more and more difficult to keep them at bay as the weeks passed. He let his frustrations out on bullet-filled targets and stiff punching bags with sawdust spilling out the sides, fists raw and bleeding and still swinging away. And still, it was never enough.

So it was probably a good thing that Cain ended up finding _them_, instead of the other way around. Sam, Dean and Cas had been digging since the detox, trying to find anything on how to separate Dean from the Mark without killing him. Finding Cain seemed like the most viable option they had, but the search had proven fruitless until the demon himself had found his way, quite literally, onto their doorstep.

He was there to take Dean up on his promise, he said. He had learned of Abaddon's death, and he was ready to die as well. Dean had practically shivered with anticipation at the thought of using the Blade again. He hadn't let himself think about it in a long time, had tried not to let himself wonder where Sam hid it (had found himself drifting off towards the bunker's more remote locations despite this), but here was a man begging for death, and Dean had made a promise. It was a perfectly good excuse to kill again.

According to Sam, however, it was the leverage they needed.

So Dean had driven the First Blade through the ancient demon's heart, but not before the Mark was transferred back to its rightful owner, glowing red as Cain died. He would not awaken again as long as the Blade stayed well out of his reach. The Winchesters would make sure that it did.

And so Dean's bruised knuckles healed and countless bullets were saved for when they would need them. The trembling stopped and the bloodlust faded and his world was no longer tinged red and his eyes were clear and green and _open_ again.

And the Winchesters learned how to breathe again; hearts and heads once more aligned with the tasks that lay before them, the duty that still had to be carried on.

* * *

And so they carried on.

But Cas's dilemma was not such a simple fix. Luckily his deterioration was slower, but that also made it all the more difficult to watch. He grew weaker and weaker as the weeks passed and his borrowed grace continued to fade, energy whittling slowly down to nothing.

Dean grew desperate, his solutions ranging from "voluntary angel grace donations" to killing off those still secretly working for Metatron's cause...despite the fact that Cas insisted there were none.

"You can't possibly tell me there's not _one_ angel out there who disagrees with you?" Dean roared. The three of them were sitting at the bunker's kitchen table, empty cereal bowls pushed off to the side, droplets of milk crawling slowly down the sides and onto the table. "I mean there's gotta be some enemies left..."

"Dean. Stop," Cas sighed. He was hunched over, arms wrapped around his stomach as if holding himself together. "Listen to yourself. Creating enemies to be slaughtered for the sake of their grace? Even if there _were_ still angels who believed in Metatron, I could not- would not, kill them. You know that. And you also know that taking their grace, besides being abhorrent, would really just be postponing the inevitable."

"Cas.." Sam cut in, but Dean was quicker.

"Don't you dare," he growled venomously, pointing a finger at his quickly deteriorating friend. "Don't you dare say it."

Cas stared back at him from across the table, expression blank. He'd been far too relaxed about the whole prospect of dying in both Sam and Dean's opinion, his only signs of distress displayed in the physical signs of his declining strength.

"Dean, it's okay," Cas said, his eyes never leaving the hunter's face. "You and Sam, that's the way it's always been, the way it should be. As long as you two are safe, as long as you're together, this world has a fighting chance. And if the world has a chance, I'm at peace with leaving it."

"Good for you Cas," Sam snapped. "Doesn't mean _we're_ good with that. We found a way to save Dean. Now we'll just have to find a way to save you too."

* * *

They'd expected the answers to lie in the details of Metatron's spell to cast the angels out of Heaven. It took endless hours of research, of interviewing any and all angels who had any contact whatsoever with Metatron. As Cas had pointed out, the vast majority _had_ rethought his leadership and were working hard to remain in Castiel's good graces. Cas said it had something to do with the two angels who were with him when both Gadreel and Metatron died, but he'd been silent after that, and neither Sam nor Dean had wanted to push him on it. But they did seek out as many angels as they could, angels who were willing to give any insight they had if it meant saving Cas's life. And they did their own research too, digging through the books in the bunker, the ones dealing with angels and grace...the ones based largely on speculation, seeing as most people would've never met an angel face to face.

It was somewhat baffling to eventually realize that the answer resided within the confines of a very different kind of book. Sam's seventh grade science book, to be exact. Okay, not _exactly_ (as much as Sam had tried to hold onto his school books, there just hadn't been enough room in the Impala when they'd jumped from place to place over the years), but the general idea was based around one of the most basic concepts within that book: the conservation of energy. Energy could not be created nor destroyed. So that meant that despite being used as part of the spell, Cas's grace was still out there somewhere, in one form or another.

The tricky part was identifying it.

But those answers came to them in much the same way they had several years ago when it had been Anna Milton's grace they had needed to find. Hers had been "reborn" in the form of a full-grown oak tree in Kentucky.

Cas's was an entire garden. In Minnesota. In the middle of January.

* * *

Bluffton, Minnesota had gotten about eight inches of snow within the week, so the drive there was pure torture. Dean was practically having a fit by the time they had passed the crooked sign boasting a population of a whopping 207 people, ranting about how the salt on the roads was devouring his poor baby, not to mention the snow itself. Even Sam had to admit that the Impala wasn't doing too well, her entire frame seeming to shiver and rattle all along the hilly, winding roads.

This alleged garden had been deemed a "miracle" by the people of Bluffton and by the obscure newspapers that had somehow found out about it (the town had apparently decided to keep quiet on the matter, not wanting the media attention). And after trudging their way up a hill that Dean refused to even attempt in the Impala, he could see their point about miracles. And about wanting to keep this particular one from becoming a tourist attraction.

"Wow," the elder hunter said as the trio stood and stared at the spacious flatland in front of them, a field that should've been nothing but pure white snow. Instead, the earth had come alive, bright spurts of blue flowers sprouting up from the ground in every direction, their soft petals somehow still flourishing in the overwhelming cold. The Winchesters were shivering, Sam's leg starting to throb despite the fact that he'd had his cast off for a few weeks now. And Cas was even worse off. The slow climb had done him in and his entire body was shaking in the fading sunlight, even with an extra jacket pulled over his dark red sweatshirt, the hood doing little to shelter his already numb ears. But despite all this, the barely-alive angel was smiling.

He stepped forward, slowly at first, and then picked up speed until he was standing directly in the middle of the vast field of blue, his fingers brushing softly along the flowers.

"It's here," was all Cas said.

And then Sam and Dean were shielding their eyes against the overwhelming blaze of heated light that seemed to surge up from the garden and envelop Cas completely. It reflected off from the bright white snow, so blinding that Dean actually feared for his eyesight for one quick moment. And then it was over and Cas stood before them, solid and immovable and no longer shivering in the cold. His eyes, brighter than they'd been in a long time, swept over everything, until he found the Winchesters staring back at him with a mixture of awe and relief. The garden still remained, a permanent imprint on the earth, and Castiel walked back through it, reveling in the familiar buzz of voices and memory and knowledge and _power_ that had long since been lost in the fray of gradual deterioration and the struggle of a fading life. He was whole again now, his entire essence humming with the renewed sensation of it, with the very palpable understanding that he would survive. That he was _alive_.

"Cas?" Dean's voice crackled and burst across the small space still left between them, too loud on the otherwise abandoned hillside. Dean seemed to realize this, his mouth clamping shut almost immediately, both him and Sam watching silently as Cas closed the rest of the distance, pulling them both into a firm embrace. Somewhat caught off guard, the brothers barely hesitated a second before returning the hug.

"Thank you," Cas said simply, holding on for an extra second before straightening up and taking a step back.

The three of them stood like that for a long time, Sam and Dean still shivering, just looking out over the seemingly infinite sea of blue flowers that fluttered in the frosty breeze. After a while, when the Winchesters' cheeks had gone completely numb and their toes had all but frozen off, they turned to make their way back to the Impala, trudging steadily back down the hill. Cas probably could've zapped them directly to the car, but instead, they walked. And they watched the flowers fade slowly from view as the sun finished its descent and glanced off of the snow, enveloping the world in thick plumes of orange and yellow.

"Hey," Sam said when the three of them had finally squeezed back into the Impala, the engine grumbling familiarly beneath their shoes. "Do you guys know what kind of flowers those were?"

"Oh my god, here we go," Dean grumbled, rolling his eyes at his little brother and putting the car into drive. "We basically all just sat there and watched a goddamn sunset together, so excuse me, but I'm gonna need a second to reclaim my manhood before we dive into a conversation about _flowers_."

"No Dean, you'll like this, trust me," Sam said, his tone light. But there was a burning behind his eyes, a flicker of significance, of knowing something important, something worth saying. Plus, Cas was smiling in that way of his; that infuriating look that said he understood more than he would say and was just waiting for the punchline. So Dean gave in, let out a long exhale and focused back on his little brother.

"Okay Sam. What?" he asked. "What kind of flowers?"

"Anchusa capensis," Sam recited it like a line from a textbook, a slow smile creeping across his face as he deliberately left his brother in the dark for a little bit longer. He couldn't resist.

"And...?" Dean prodded after a moment, rolling his eyes just as Sam knew he would. The youngest Winchester smiled.

"Blue angel," Sam said. "It means blue angel."

~THE END~

* * *

**For real this time. It's actually the end now. I swear. Thank you guys again for sticking with me on this and for your amazing support- you're all fabulous and every single review was appreciated! Also, get excited for the season 10 premiere NEXT WEEK. YAY. **


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